“Must have been the milk hitting last night’s hot dog from the Mini Mart. Good to go.” Krista helped Marcus back into the car.
Dupree waited until she was in the car to get back in. The mess may have been mopped up in an old towel, but the smell remained. Dupree rolled down his window. The Chipmunks were silenced, and Merci whimpered softly as she sucked her thumb.
After about fifteen minutes, the first road sign announcing Stockton began to appear. This was the perfect opportunity for Dupree to make his escape. There were ten exits into the city of Stockton according to the sign. This was foreign territory and one exit was the same as the next to Dupree.
A new and very unfamiliar feeling overcame Dupree as he plotted his exit and tried to determine which exit was the best to request his departure. He was struggling with embarrassment, concern for Krista, and guilt at abandoning her. She was not his responsibility. He provided an escape from Modesto and the clutches of Jerry, the randy transmission man. He saved her a lot of money. They were strangers. Three hours ago, he knew nothing of her and her noisy, puking kids. His head pounded. For a man who heartlessly took people’s houses, businesses, and represented the interests of legal, but ruthless, corporations for two decades, he found himself getting emotionally attached to this little family.
“Do you have a map?” Dupree asked.
“In the glove box. Why?”
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this. I need you to let me off at the next exit.” Dupree cleared his throat and opened the glove box. “I seem to recall that I-5 runs parallel to 99. It might be a better route for you to take.”
“I don’t understand. I thought you needed a ride to Oregon.”
“Plans change,” Dupree said coldly.
He found a map for Northern California. He ran his finger along Highway 99. “Yes, please take the Highway 4 exit, it will take you to I-5. I’ll get out on one of the exits there.”
“Alright.” Krista’s voice sounded concerned and confused.
The exit was a sharp incline on to a smooth new stretch of highway. They rode silently for several minutes.
“That one will work, please let me out there. Look, I’m sorry, but I guess I’m just too old to deal with little kids.”
“They’re just normal kids,” Krista said defensively.
“I know, the problem lies with me. I appreciate the ride.”
The exit went down into a dirty, rundown part of the city. Without a word, Krista pulled the car over.
“Thank you again. I hope you get to Idaho safe and sound. Good luck. Your husband is a lucky fellow.” Dupree smiled, grabbed his pack, and opened the door.
“You didn’t give that guy any money, did you?”
“No, I didn’t. We just had a talk.” Dupree stepped from the car and closed the door.
CHAPTER 5
To the north of where Dupree stood was a street of old bars, liquor stores, and the darkened spaces of closed businesses. This is not going to work, he thought, as he walked in the sunshine. He was standing in a Skid Row area that was as bad as anything in L.A. The whole place made the ratty area of Modesto that Dupree walked along this morning look like the playground at McDonald’s. The number of derelicts was astounding. Groups of black men gathered on corners and in the doorways of low rent hotels. Large numbers of Mexicans leaned against the windows and walls of old abandoned stores and restaurants. They smoked and passed bottles in brown paper bags. Some didn’t bother with the bag.
All along the chain-link fences that bordered the exit were makeshift, homeless shelters of cardboard boxes and black plastic. Blankets and plastic tarps covered frameworks of shopping carts, plywood, and plastic milk crates. People were bundled in filthy blankets and the occasional sleeping bag. Several dogs slept curled up next to their masters. Even in the cool breeze sweeping through the covering of the overpass, the stench of human waste cut through.
Dupree continued his survey of the area. To the south was mostly concrete, gray warehouses, and industrial business. As the light changed just beyond the overpass, a black and white police cruiser rounded the corner. As it approached him, he raised his arm to flag it down.
“Good afternoon,” the young Hispanic officer said, rolling down his window.
“Hi. I seem to have wandered into a pretty questionable neighborhood.”
“You could say that for sure.” The officer chuckled and turned to his partner. “I’ve heard it called a lot of things, but questionable is a new one. What can we do for you?”
“How far is it to civilization?”
“At least a mile to get out of this mess.”
“Are there taxis?”
“Where are you from? No sane cabbie would come down here.”
“Los Angeles. So, can you point me in the safest direction?”
“I can do better than that. In the interest of public safety…”
“He means yours,” the officer in the passenger seat interrupted.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant, your safety and well-being, as a visitor to our fair city. If you don’t mind hopping in the back, we’ll get you to safety. We are about to go off duty.”
The passenger-side officer got out, rounded the back of the car and opened the back door.
“I’m going to pat you down. It is for our safety and yours. Just procedure. Please put your hands on top of the car.” The officer moved quickly and methodically. “All done. Thanks.”
“Very enlightening.” Dupree smiled. No civil case there, he thought.
“We’ll let you off just a little ways from the station. Buses and taxis are available there. Be sure and use a yellow cab that says City Taxi.” The radio under the dash squawked. “Not for us, I’m going home. So what brings you to Stockton?”
“I’m on my way to Washington and got sidetracked with a bit of car trouble,” Dupree said through the steel mesh screen that divided them. “My ride dropped me off at the wrong exit. I’m glad you fellas came along. I was a bit out of my element back there.”
“Me too,” the cop in the passenger seat chimed in.
“Well, this will be a lot better place to arrange where you’re going.” The patrol car pulled over.
Dupree reached for the door handle.
The officer in the passenger seat watched as he felt around the door. “Not going to find it!” The officer said good-heartedly. “Hold on, I’ll let you out.”
“I’ve never been in the back of a patrol car before.”
“That’s what I figured,” the officer said, as the door swung open.
“Thank you so much for the ride,” Dupree said, stepping onto the curb.
“To serve and protect,” the driver said out his window.
The patrol car pulled away, and Dupree took in his surroundings: Pizza Hut, Wendy’s, a car wash, and a lot of average looking citizens. Breakfast seemed a long time ago so Dupree made his way toward Wendy’s. He was hungry, but the thought of something heavy in his stomach didn’t seem to appeal. As he read the menu, the idea of a chocolate Frosty sounded like just the thing.
An older couple, perhaps in their late seventies, made their way across the dining room and sat in the booth next to Dupree. From the start, he could tell they were losing their hearing. Not that they were shouting, but their voices were elevated just enough for Dupree to hear every word as if he were sitting with them.
“Did you want more ketchup?” the man asked, as they settled in the seats.
“No dear, this will be fine,” his wife replied.
The couple sat quietly eating their lunch, as Dupree wondered what it must be like to be with someone for so long. He dreamed of falling in love with his soulmate when he was young and dying in each other’s arms at an old age. His wife certainly wasn’t his soulmate. He heard a lot about soulmates in his Literature classes, and around tables at smoky late-night, wine-fueled, philosophical discussions, and it always sounded like that person was out there somewhere. Then again, books, music, and film are filled w
ith the ones that got away or were lost in some tragic romantic way. It never happened to Dupree.
He met his wife in an Art History class. He was in the last year of his undergraduate work. His law school was set, his path lay before him. The chart he made of his five, ten and twenty-year goals were xeroxed and taped in the front of all his textbooks, on his mirror, and the dashboard of his car. Nothing would deter him from those goals.
Number three on the list of five-year goals was a beautiful wife, good hostess, a good networker, social climber, and an asset to his outside life with the firm. Nothing was said of love, soulmates, or long term, lasting relationships. Toward the bottom of the list was 2.5 children. They were seen as part of the formula, not something to be longed for, desired, or anticipated. Much like making partner on or before year ten of the goals, they were a puzzle piece.
Dupree couldn’t imagine sitting in a fast-food restaurant with his wife, not now or in forty years. What was it that drew him to her? He imagined he was back in his Art History class twenty-some years ago. She sat four rows in front of him in the large lecture hall. He noticed her on the first day. Long legs, great butt, flaxen hair, and a backpack with patches from European cities and countries.
As the days went by Dupree methodically inched up closer to her. Finally, he was directly behind her. He waited each day as she seemed to glide into the row, pull a yellow notepad from her backpack, and settle in for the lecture. She was actually interested. To Dupree, the class was just three credits of required Fine Arts.
The second day sitting behind her he offered her a warm smile and a friendly, “Good Morning.”
She smiled and nodded.
This went on for three more class meetings before he worked up the nerve to walk up the aisle beside her after class. He offered a cheerful, “Have a great day!” as he turned left and she went right.
Two more cheerful partings, and then he turned right as well. Idle chatter turned to asking her for coffee, then a movie, and the hook was set. Dupree, in his logical, practical, goal-driven way, decided she passed the audition. He would marry her after he passed the bar. She never knew she was part of the plan; she thought it was love.
Diane was a good country club name. He liked her, actually quite a lot. Was it love? Dupree thought maybe it was, but he had no feeling to compare it with, no point of reference, so he settled for whatever the feeling was. Over the years, the ‘a lot’ was dropped. A few years after that like seemed a foreign concept for the woman he shared his bed with, had sex with—he never thought of it as making love—conceived children with, and occupied a four thousand square foot house with. Tolerated, perhaps was a better word. Now, even that no longer applied.
The Frosty was gone far too quickly. Dupree stood and started to leave, then turned back to the table where the elderly couple sat.
“Pardon me, but can I ask you folks a question?”
“I suppose so, ‘less it’s for money.” The old man smiled.
“No, it’s not that,” Dupree continued. “How many years have you been married?”
“Al,” the woman said grinning.
“Fifty-eight years. That right?”
His wife beamed as she nodded her head. “That’s right.”
“I have to ask. What your secret?”
“Have a seat and I’ll tell you all about it,” Al said.
“Yes, please join us. I’m Sylvia.” Her hand shot out at Dupree, and he was taken aback by her firm grip.
“I’m Dupree.”
Al slid over making room on the seat.
“The secret to a strong, long, marriage is marrying your best friend. That way you never run out of stuff to talk about or wonder what they’re up to. It’s always a pleasure to be together. Remember the small stuff don’t matter, and the big stuff is dealt with together.”
“And never go to bed angry,” Sylvia added.
“It seems I missed the boat from the start,” Dupree said, as much to himself as Al and Sylvia.
“Now, that is a shame. Never too late to try again.”
“What about love? You didn’t mention love,” Dupree pressed.
“Well, of course we love each other, silly,” Sylvia began. “There are different kinds of love. There’s that fluttery young love, there’s can’t keep your hands off each other love, there’s hurt when they hurt love, there’s hold their head when they’re pukin’ with the flu love. The most important is the kind you don’t talk about much. It’s the, I will never leave you, love. At our age, that’s the deepest, realest of all. Because we know we only got a few more years on this old earth. No one wants to go first because we can’t stand the thought of leavin’ the other alone. Seems like a lie if you die first, you know what I mean.”
“I believe I do,” Dupree replied.
“She leave ya?” Al asked.
“No, no, nothing like that.” Dupree chuckled. “Nothing like that.” Dupree stood. “Thanks, I never had the opportunity to ask anyone together for a long time. I think you two are very special. Thank you.”
“I hope you find someone to love,” Sylvia said, as Dupree walked away.
He stopped, and for a long moment considered what the old lady just said. Is that what this was about? He needed someone to love? God knows there is no one on earth he cared about, let alone loved. Did he already know the answer when he sat down? He turned slowly and looked back at the old couple. They were back in deep conversation. Sylvia looked up, saw Dupree, and winked. He smiled and made his way to the door.
Back on the sidewalk, Dupree looked around for a sign indicating a freeway. There was nothing. A few yards to his right two kids were sitting on a bus bench.
“Where’s this bus go?” Dupree inquired.
“Home.” A thin, pimple-faced redhead in a Delta College sweatshirt said with self-amusement.
“I asked for that,” Dupree said good-heartedly.
“All points east.”
“Freeway?”
“I-5 I suppose. I don’t really know. I just started school here. I’m from Washington.”
“State?” Dupree asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me ask you something. Do you know of a small town there, maybe in the mountains, lots of trees, friendly people?”
“White Owl. Full of artsy types and old hippies, lots of live music. They have a festival there I think. You know tie-dye, organic farms, handcrafts, cool place to visit. I went there once on the way to meet some friends for a backpacking trip.”
“How about to live?”
“You don’t look like the hippie type. But yeah, it would be cool, I think.” Pimples looked up at the approaching bus. “Here we go,” he said to the other kid on the bench whose eyes were closed.
“Thanks for the info.” Dupree offered.
“This bus doesn’t go there though.” Pimples laughed.
The bus brakes whooshed and the doors opened. The two boys hopped on the bus.
Dupree took the first step onto the bus. “How close do you get to the freeway?”
“ ’Bout a hundred yards.” The driver replied.
Dupree took another step up.
“Eighty-five cents.”
Dupree paid and looked around. There were only about a dozen people on the bus. He took a seat behind the driver. The ride was pleasant enough. The bus rolled past a park, a few old houses, and a lot of businesses. Ten minutes later the bus came to a stop between Burger King and McDonald’s.
“End of the line. Transfers at the bench. Everybody off,” the driver said into the microphone.
Dupree was the first one off the bus. Just like the driver said, a freeway entrance sign marked the north ramp to Interstate 5.
Pack in hand, Dupree stationed himself on the sidewalk outside the Burger King’s chain link fence and under the shade of a low hanging tree. He stuck his thumb out and waited for a ride.
Most cars not only didn’t slow down, but they also sped up as they turned the corner onto the northbound r
amp. He tried his best to smile and make eye contact but after an hour, the smile was feeling plastic and forced. After two hours, the smile was gone. He tried at least to look cheerful and nonthreatening but he was beginning to mutter under his breath.
Three hours of standing and waiting for a ride set a new record. Dupree was in full frustration mode and called the drivers of cars a variety of creative names as they roared by.
At three hours and twelve minutes, a mid-nineties, navy blue Mustang slowly approached. The paint was worn off every leading surface like it drove for miles through a sand storm. It rolled to a slow stop in front of Dupree.
“Where you headed?” the driver asked through a half rolled down window.
“Washington.”
“I’m only going as far as Redding, but you’re welcome to come along if you want.”
“Sounds great, thanks.” Dupree opened the door and got in.
The car sped away and onto the freeway. The first thing Dupree noticed was the amount of trash inside the car. The back seat literally looked like the driver threw fast-food sacks and cups over his shoulder. Beer cans punctuated the refuse.
“I’m Dupree.”
“Cutter.” The name wasn’t followed with any further comment.
As Dupree settled in for hopefully a long ride, he realized he had no idea where Redding was. He grinned to himself. His comfort zone was, little by little, shredding like an old flag in the wind. The trash in the car extended to the floor around Dupree’s feet and he tried to push it aside enough to find a place for his feet and pack to comfortably rest.
“You can throw that shit in the back with all the rest. Didn’t know I was having company.”
Dupree grabbed several handfuls of trash and placed it on the mess in the back seat. “That’s better,” Dupree said cheerfully.
He got no response. There was a pungent odor in the car. It wasn’t spoiled food or body odor, more like the lingering scent of skunk. He dismissed it. The smell was bearable, and not a reason to complain after three hours waiting for a ride. Still, he wondered what it was.
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