“They could make rabbit people,” I said.
His brow furrowed. “Can’t say it wouldn’t be an improvement. But it ain’t the way God intended. You know Hitler tried some of that monkey business during World War II. Experimenting with apes and humans, trying to make a better soldier, one who didn’t complain and who he could feed bananas to . . .”
I decided his mind was as eclectic as his station. “So how did you come to like rabbits so much?”
“I don’t know. How’d you come to liking walkin’ so much?”
“That’s a good question.”
“I thought so. I can see why you’d choose to walk Route 66. Thing is, it’s not just a road, it’s a club. Longest club in the world, stretchin’ two thousand miles and then some. You’ll meet people all along the way who want to be friends. Some of ’em years later still send me Christmas cards.”
“Really?”
He looked at me seriously. “Wouldn’t joke about a thing like that.”
If I had a Christmas card list, this man would definitely be on it, I thought. I finished my Orange Fanta, left him the bottle to collect the deposit, then returned to the Route.
Chapter Nineteen
We never know what horrific and powerful currents run beneath the seemingly calm surface of another’s life.
—CHARLES JAMES’S DIARY
Two days later I reached the border of Illinois and Missouri, the first of eight state lines I would be crossing before I reached my destination. St. Louis and its famous Arch were visible in the distance.
The freeway leading from Illinois to St. Louis was too dangerous (and illegal) to walk, so I stuck out my thumb. I got picked up by an older model Chevy truck with a Southern Cross decal in the back window. The driver was about my age and owned a small remodeling company. He offered to take me into the city but I demurred, telling him that I wanted to walk as much of the Route as I could.
He dropped me off in a rough-looking area near the Chain of Rocks bridge, which, according to my guidebook, was part of the original Route 66 and one of the largest pedestrian bridges in the world. Originally it had been built for cars but had been closed off to vehicular traffic for almost fifty years. The mile-long bridge spans the Mississippi River as well as the Illinois–Missouri border and features a thirty-degree turn midway through.
The air was hot and moist. It took me a little less than twenty minutes to cross the bridge, passing fewer than a dozen other people, most on bicycles, on my way.
The opposite end of the bridge looked even more blighted than the Illinois side where I’d entered, and the parking lot was littered with trash and marked with graffiti. I headed south on Riverside Road.
St. Louis was still far enough away that I would either have to find a place to stay or walk after dark, though neither possibility looked promising, as the area looked more like a postapocalyptic war zone than suburbia. Everywhere I looked the buildings were boarded up or windows were broken out, and it seemed that everything—from benches to light poles—was covered with layers of graffiti, as if the area had broken out in a rash of spray paint.
Suddenly, an older silver Dodge Stratus pulled up to the curb next to me. The car had a dented back end and was missing its hubcaps. The driver, a midtwenties black woman, shouted to me. “Excuse me, sir.”
I walked up to the car. “Yes?”
“You shouldn’t be walking here.”
“In this neighborhood?”
“This whole area. It’s not safe. Where are you going?”
“I’m going into the city. I’m staying at a hotel near the Arch.”
“Well, you’d better get in. I’ll give you a ride. You can put your backpack in the backseat.”
“You don’t have to do this,” I said.
“I think I do.”
“Thank you.” I opened her car’s back door. As I took off my pack, she said, “I’m not going to steal your pack.”
I laid my pack across the seat, then got in front. “I didn’t think you would,” I said.
The car seats were vinyl and warm, the air conditioner impotently fighting the sweltering heat. The woman glanced in her rearview mirror, put her car in drive, waited for a car to pass, and pulled out into the street. She was quiet for a moment. Then, without looking at me, she asked in a soft voice, “Did you come over the bridge?”
“Yes.” I looked at her, really seeing her for the first time. She was a little hard-looking, but pretty. “Have you ever walked over it?”
“Yes,” she said shortly, keeping her eyes fixed on the road. After another minute she breathed out slowly, almost like a sigh. “Where in the city are you going?”
“The Hyatt Regency by the Arch. It’s on—”
“I know where the Arch is,” she said.
She continued to drive. The farther south we went, the more evident it was that the woman knew the area and its potential danger.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Monika. With a k.”
“Monika? Really?”
“Yes, sir. What’s yours?”
“Charles. Without a k.”
“Do your friends ever call you Chuck?”
“Not if they want to still be my friends.”
Her shoulders loosened slightly. “Nice to meet you, Charles.”
“My pleasure, Monika.” We drove a bit more in silence. Then I said, “My wife was named Monica.”
“Was? She changed her name?”
“She changed her marital status. We’re divorced.”
“Sorry.” She turned toward me. “Is that a bad thing?”
“It was for me. I miss her.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again. A moment later, she said, “That’s a big pack. Is it heavy?”
“By the end of the day it is.”
“Where are you walking from?”
“Chicago.”
“You walked all the way from Chicago?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How many miles is that?”
“A little over three hundred.”
“That’s a long way to walk. Where are you walking to?”
“Santa Monica, California.”
She glanced at me skeptically, as if waiting for me to tell her I was just kidding. “You’re walking all the way to California?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How far is that?”
“About twenty-five hundred miles.”
“That is crazy.” She glanced quickly at me. “I’m not saying you’re crazy.”
“I probably am.”
“What’s in California?”
“My ex-wife.”
“You’re walking twenty-five hundred miles to see your ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“You really do miss her,” she said softly. A moment later, she added, “That’s romantic. I’d like it if a man walked twenty-five hundred miles to see me.”
“I hope she thinks so.”
A few minutes later the Gateway Arch came into view, its stainless steel exterior reflecting the late-afternoon sun in brilliant, blinding flashes.
“I’ll never get tired of looking at that,” I said.
“Have you ever been inside?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
“That elevator they made for it is remarkable. There are some smart people in this world.” She paused. “Were you planning on walking all the way to St. Louis tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Two nights ago they found a body about a mile from where I picked you up.” She paused. “You’re from Chicago; you get crime up there.”
“I usually stay out of places they find bodies,” I said.
“That would be nice.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s where I live.”
The downtown traffic was heavy and it took almost fifteen minutes just to navigate a few miles of the rush-hour traffic leading to the hotel. She pulled into the hotel’s curved driveway and put her car in p
ark. “There you go.”
“Thank you,” I said. “How can I thank you?”
“You just did.”
“Have you had dinner?”
“No. I was just going home to make something.”
“Come have dinner with me. My treat. There’s a Ruth’s Chris inside.”
She shook her head, drumming her fingernails on the steering wheel. “That’s okay.”
“Have you ever eaten at Ruth’s Chris?”
“No. I’ve heard of it, but never been there.”
“I didn’t think so.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why, because I drive a POS car?”
“No, because if you had, you wouldn’t have refused dinner there. Unless, of course, you just didn’t want my company.”
“If I didn’t want your company, I wouldn’t have picked you up.”
“You didn’t know me back then.”
“I still don’t know you.”
“Another reason to have dinner with me. Come on. Come have dinner with me.”
She thought for a moment, then said, “All right. Where do I park?”
“These guys will take care of it,” I said, gesturing to a valet. I got out of the car and lifted my pack from the back seat. One of the valets approached me.
“Will you be checking in, sir?”
“Yes. Not her, just me. We’re going to have dinner first, so you can check my pack.”
“Of course, sir. And what is your name?”
“Charles James,” I said.
“Charles James,” he repeated. Then he added, “Like the seminar guy.”
His comment stopped me. “Seminar guy?”
“Oh, it’s just this guy who goes around doing wealth seminars. He was here about a month ago.”
I was waiting for him to recognize me. He didn’t. “And you went to his seminar?”
The valet put a tag on my pack. “Yes. The whole thing.”
“How was it?”
“It was good. He was a cool guy. He’s like the grandson of Jesse James the outlaw. I didn’t buy anything yet; I’m still saving up for the packages. It’s almost ten grand, so it’s going to take everything I’ve saved for the last two years.”
I handed him a five-dollar bill. “Let me give you another tip. Hang on to your money.”
He took my backpack, and Monika and I walked inside. Being inside the hotel lobby brought back memories. It was the same restaurant I’d been at with McKay when he told me he was dying. The hostess sat us at a booth near the back of the restaurant, leaving us with dinner menus and a wine list. I sensed that Monika didn’t feel comfortable in the setting.
I lifted the wine list. “Would you like some wine?”
“No thank you,” she said.
“You don’t like it?”
“I’m more of a beer drinker.”
“Then how about a beer?”
“I’m okay,” she said.
A moment later a waitress walked up to our table. “How are you folks tonight?”
“Well,” Monika said.
“We’re good,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thank you. May I get you something to drink?”
“Just water, please,” Monika said.
I set down the wine list. “I’ll have a glass of the Faust cabernet sauvignon.”
“A very good choice. Are you ready to order?”
I glanced at Monika and said, “Give us a few minutes.”
“Very good. I’ll get you your drinks.” She walked away.
Monika looked at the menu, her brow furrowed.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She breathed out slowly. Finally she said, “This is how much I spend on food in a week.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not paying for this,” I said.
“You sure you can afford this?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “Can’t you tell I’m rich?” Considering that I looked homeless, the rhetorical question sounded more like a joke.
“I’ll take your word for it.” She continued studying the menu.
After a moment I asked, “Is this weird, having dinner with a stranger?”
“Yes.”
“With a white stranger?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“Technically, I’m half Mexican.”
The waitress returned with my wine. She set the glass in front of me, then gave us both ice-filled glasses of water. “Are you ready to order?”
“I think so,” I said. “Monika, you first.”
She set down the menu. “I’ll have the wedge salad.”
“What dressing would you like with that?”
“Blue cheese.”
“And what would you like for your main course?”
“I’ll just have the salad,” she said.
I took a sip of my wine and said, “You’re having more than that.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Are you vegetarian?”
“No.”
I set down my glass. “I can see I’ll have to order for her. I’ll have the cowboy ribeye. Medium rare. With a side of your sweet potato casserole and calamari.” I looked at Monika. “And she will have your filet mignon, with a side wedge salad, with blue cheese. How do you like your steak, Monika? Burnt or rare?”
“In between.”
“Medium, and another glass of wine for the lady. This is good.”
The waitress said, “Very good. Thank you.” She gathered our menus and left.
I turned to Monika. “Sorry, I had to take the wheel. I wasn’t going to eat all that food in front of you.”
“It’s okay. Thank you.” She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Are you expecting something out of this?”
“Something?”
She just looked at me.
I smiled. “I expect you will enjoy dinner immensely.”
She laughed nervously.
“I’m already in your debt,” I said. “You might have saved my life.”
“I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’m just not that kind of a girl.”
“What kind of girl are you?”
“I’m a Christian one.”
I nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you have religion?” she asked.
“Rank and file agnostic,” I said. “I was raised Catholic. I went to church every Sunday with my family, then came home and got beaten up by my old man. He beat God right out of me.”
Monika frowned. “I was raised Baptist, but I left the faith for a long time.”
“Why did you leave?”
Pain flashed in her eyes. She looked down, as if avoiding the question. A young man interrupted the silence, setting bread at our table and refilling our water glasses. He was followed by our waitress, carrying Monika’s glass of wine. Monika took a sip of wine and said, “You really are walking to California?”
I knew that she had purposely dodged my question, so I didn’t pursue it. “Yes. I really am.”
“That’s amazing. It must be nice to just walk away. Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just get on the next bus out of here and start somewhere else. But I never do. I go to my job, then come home, chain my door, and hope my car is there in the morning.”
“Why do you think you don’t leave?”
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe I will if I ever put enough money away to give myself a cushion. I guess we trust the devil we know more than the one we don’t.”
I took another drink of wine, then looked Monika in the eyes. “When I was seventeen, I got on the bus. Literally. I went to California with nothing but a few clothes and less than a hundred dollars to my name. I had no idea where I was going to go, other than away from my father. I met my ex-wife on the bus to California. Sometimes it seems like the universe provides for the bold.”
“And sometimes not,” she said.
Just then our waitress brought out our food. Monika cut a piece from her still-sizzling steak, speared it with her f
ork, and took a bite. “Oh, my.”
Her reaction made me happy. “So it’s good?”
“Heaven is good,” she said. “This is amazing.”
After we had eaten a while in silence, Monika looked at me and said, “You asked why I left my faith . . .”
I stopped eating and looked up at her.
“My two little sisters were murdered on that bridge you walked over. They were only ten and thirteen. A group of boys raped and killed them, then dropped their bodies into the river.”
The revelation sickened me. “I am so sorry.”
She lifted her napkin from her lap and dabbed her eyes.
After a moment I asked, “How long ago was that?”
“About six years.” She looked at me. “I miss them. Every day. They were such sweet girls. I couldn’t believe that God would let that happen. I hated Him for that. I hated Him almost as much as I hated those boys.”
“Did they catch the boys?”
“Yes. They’re all in prison. The youngest was only sixteen, but they tried him as an adult.”
“So why did you go back to church?”
“I needed it. I found myself changing into the very thing I hated. That’s what hate does—it remakes us in its image.”
I thought over her words. “So you just went back?”
She shook her head. “No. That took a while. I started by praying. I asked God to help me let go.”
“Did it help?”
She dabbed her eyes with the napkin again, then said, “A couple of days after my prayer, I had a dream. I was in a beautiful park. It was perfect, with the sun shining and millions of wildflowers and a clear brook. Then suddenly my sisters were there with me. They were wearing beautiful gowns of brilliant white that somehow reflected different colors like a rainbow whenever they moved. But even more brilliant than their gowns were their faces. They were just looking at me. They looked so happy. Then Monique, the youngest of my sisters, said to me, ‘We are at peace, Moni. Are you?’
“That’s when I woke. It was so real.” She looked into my eyes. “Do you believe in dreams? Like they might be real?”
The Forgotten Road Page 8