Текст книги "The Lost"
Автор книги: Sarah Beth Durst
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
He doesn’t appear again, though I wait and watch. At last, I fetch my purse, lock the car, and walk into town. I look back over my shoulder every few steps. Oddly, the storm neither spreads nor dissipates. It simply sits, as if it is waiting, too.
Chapter Four
Abandoned houses are scattered across the desert on the outskirts of Lost. I hadn’t seen them properly in the dark when I drove into town last night, but I notice them now. There’s no pattern to them that I can see. No driveways that lead to them. No mailboxes on the road. They look as if tornados dumped them here after they failed to reach Oz. Some are Tudors, some are Capes, some Colonials, Victorians, even a triple-decker town house, which has to be hell on the third floor in August. Only a few are the usual adobe-style ranch houses that should be here. Mesquites and brambles clog their yards, and windows are boarded up or broken. Some have piles of junk in their yard—trashed cars, old appliances, bicycle parts, empty bottles.
I see figures scurry over the piles. They’re kids, scavenging like feral cats in a dump. One girl in a torn and stained velvet dress holds up a find: an apple.
A boy in sagging jeans swipes it out of her hands.
Shrugging, she dives back into the pile.
There are no parents around, but this many kids can’t be homeless. If this were L.A., maybe. But not in a small desert town. The parents must not know that their kids are playing near so much rusted junk, rotted wood, and broken glass. Ahead, the vacancy sign flashes in its syncopated rhythm. All the suitcases are gone from the motel parking lot, and there’s no sign of the crowd. The pavement has been swept clean of all the debris, bottles, cans, and clothes. I walk into the motel lobby.
Tiffany is perched on the counter. She’s tying a rope into a noose. She has a pile of nooses already next to her. She holds one up as I enter. “Souvenir?” she offers.
“No, thank you.” Perhaps I should have tried the diner instead of the motel. “Listen, my car ran out of gas outside town...”
“Uh-huh.” Tiffany tosses the new noose into the pile and selects another rope.
“I would have had enough, but I had trouble finding the entrance ramp to the highway...”
She rolls her eyes and begins to knot another noose. “Uh-huh.”
“All I need is a few gallons of gas. Enough to reach the next town. And directions to the highway. I know you said there’s no gas station here, but I’m hoping there’s someone who can sell me—”
“Gas isn’t easy to come by here.” Tiffany completes the next noose. “If you want something that’s hard to come by, you have to talk to the Missing Man. He finds what you need, if you can’t find it yourself.”
“The Missing Man,” I repeat. The name sounds like a joke. “You know, I used to be just like you. Not the leg warmers. But the multicolored hair and the attitude. Convinced I was bound for something great.”
Tiffany smiles flatly. “I’m not bound for anywhere. And neither are you.” She hops down from the counter and goes behind it to fetch more rope. “And you weren’t like me once. I was like you once. Go talk to the Missing Man.”
“And where do I find him?”
“You don’t,” Tiffany says. “He’ll find you.”
Adopting my best mock-teenager voice, I say, “Whatever,” and walk toward the door. The bells chime discordantly as I shove the door open.
“Wait!” Tiffany calls after me.
Stopping, I look back at her. Something has erased the mocking expression, and she looks young, innocent, and oddly scared. I have the urge to ask what’s wrong, to stay and talk to her...but I’m not here to counsel this echo of my old teenage self. I wait for her to continue.
“Do you think...this isn’t who I should be?”
I don’t know what she means. It’s an odd question to ask a stranger.
She touches her hair, pats the hair-sprayed curls. They bounce back under her palm. “Should I ditch the whole ’80s emo thing?”
“Definitely,” I say, though I think what she really needs to ditch is her personality. But I don’t say it because (a) it would be rude, and (b) I don’t think it’s possible to change a personality on a whim. Every New Year’s Eve, I make dozens of resolutions to change my personality, and at best I last a week before I plunge back into old habits. Back when I was in my artist stage, I’d create (and then fail to finish) more paintings and sketches in the first week of January than any other time of the year.
She sighs. “Pity. It was kind of fun.” A second later, she brightens and says in a faux Southern accent, “I know! I’m a fallen debutante. Lost my virginity!” She jumps off the counter. “All I need is the right clothes...pink. Lots of it.” She scurries into the supply closet.
I want to tell her it isn’t that simple to change who you are. You can’t dress the part and expect it to seep into you from the outside in. Sure, she can lose the leg warmers, but I doubt the eye roll or the dripping disdain for others will be as easy to shed.
Tiffany doesn’t return immediately, and I tell myself it’s stupid to wait for her. She’s nothing to me. I leave the lobby.
The Moonlight Diner is directly across the street, but I’d rather try other options first than face the intimidatingly beautiful waitress. Besides, I am curious to see what the center of town looks like. Leaving the motel, I head down the street. It isn’t far, only a block or two.
I pass a barber shop with an old-fashioned barber’s pole by the front door.
A cozy used bookstore (the kind you rarely see anymore).
A white clapboard post office with a bronze eagle at its apex. Its front windows are boarded up with plywood.
I think the town would be quaint and cute if it weren’t so run-down and if there weren’t so much trash piled up on the sidewalks. It feels like a ghost town where the ghosts have forgotten to leave.
Despite the overwhelming mess, one person is trying to improve the town. In front of the post office, a woman is on her hands and knees planting flowers. Her hair is tied back with a floral scarf and she’s wearing a Donna Reed 1950s housewife dress. She hums to herself as she digs with her trowel.
“Excuse me,” I say to her. “My car ran out of gas outside town. I made a few too many attempts to find the highway entrance and kept getting mixed up inside a dust storm. We don’t have too many dust storms on the L.A. freeways.” I laugh, awkwardly. She digs another hole. “I am hoping that there’s someone in town who could sell me a few gallons. Do you know who I should talk to?”
She doesn’t look up. “You should talk to the Missing Man.”
“Yeah, okay, so do you know where I can find him?”
“You don’t find him—he finds you.”
Clearly I walked right into that one. She picks up one of her flowers to plant. It’s dead. All the flowers are dead. She stuffs its withered stem into the hole she made, and she pats the soil tenderly around it as she hums. “Thanks for your help,” I say, and back away.
Nearby, a man in a filthy business suit wades through the debris in the gutter. Every few feet, he halts and picks up a penny. He ignores the dimes and nickels and quarters. He stuffs his pennies into a Santa Claus–like sack that weights down one shoulder. Seeing me looking at him, he clutches his sack and says, “Mine!”
“Absolutely. Yours. Do you know if there’s a police station around? Or anyone helpful?” I don’t expect him to answer, and he doesn’t. He scuttles faster down the gutter, scooping up pennies as if he expects me to steal them first. I scan the area for anyone without a plethora of mental issues.
Children, as ragged as those on the outskirts of town, are crouched in the alleys between the shops. Perched on top of and around Dumpsters, they watch me, their eyes bright and hard. One little girl in a princess dress sucks on her thumb. She has a dirty teddy bear tucked under her elbow and a knife in her other hand. She squeezes the handle as if it’s as comforting as a teddy bear.
So far, it seems that the motel clerk and the waitress are the sanest ones in town. I retreat away from the center of town, back toward the motel and the diner. I hear footsteps behind me.
The children are trailing after me.
The girl with the bear and the knife is in front. She stares at me with her anime-wide eyes. A boy with glasses is right behind her. He has a trash can lid strapped to his arm as if it were a knight’s shield. He has a cut on his cheek that has puckered into a red crust. I pick up my pace, and I hear the shuffling speed up behind me.
They’re kids, I tell myself. Little kids. And it’s broad daylight.
But my heart beats so fast that it almost hurts. As soon as I’m close enough to the diner, I bolt inside. The bell over the door rings, and I check behind me. The kids don’t follow me inside. I sag against the door and then I wonder why a glass door should make me feel safe. It could be opened. It could be broken. It could be shattered and slice me with its shards.
“Ready for some pie?” It’s Merry, the overfriendly woman from last night. She pats the stool on the counter next to her. She still has that odd haze of light, as if sparks are caught in her hair, but I can only see it if I look out of the corner of my eye.
“I’m ready to leave this place,” I say.
“Oh, you look so scared! Don’t worry, sugarplum. Those kids won’t hurt you. They just want to see if you have what they need.”
Victoria sweeps past with a coffeepot in each hand. “Don’t sugarcoat, Merry. Not all the kids who come through here are sweet cuddly pumpkins.” She pours a cup of coffee in the trucker’s mug. He’s in the same seat as last night and wearing the same clothes. He doesn’t look like he’s moved at all. “Best if you don’t make eye contact.”
I shoot a look out the window, as quick as possible so that the kids won’t see me looking. Most mill around the sidewalk, as if they’ve lost interest in me—except for the girl with the bear and knife. She stands motionless outside the diner, staring at me through the door with her wide, brown eyes. I shiver.
“Sit.” Merry pats the stool again. “Have pie. Feel better.”
“I don’t need to feel better,” I say. “I need to go home.” By now, Mom must have graduated from slightly worried to very worried. This is the woman who called the police when I walked home from school instead of taking the bus in sixth grade. She’d imagined every possible scenario and decided I must have been taken and sold on eBay. I didn’t get my overactive imagination from nowhere. “Can I use your phone?” I ask Victoria. “I have no coverage on mine.”
“Sorry,” Victoria says. “There are no phones here.”
The man in the kitchen pipes up. “Technically, there are thousands. But none work, at least not as phones. Games work until the batteries die. Unless you find a compatible charger.”
“Okay, no cell tower,” I say. “Fine. Stupid but fine. You must have landlines.” I know I sound hostile, but I can’t help it. It feels as though they’re conspiring to strand me here, though I know I’m the one who missed the highway entrance and ran out of gas.
“Oh, honey, it won’t work.” Merry’s voice drips with pity. “Don’t get in a lather. You won’t help yourself that way.”
Victoria points to the hostess station. “She needs to try it for herself.”
All the customers watch as I stride to the hostess station. There’s a rotary phone, circa 1970, on the wall. I pick it up and hear a dial tone. Relief floods through me—it works! God, these people have a warped sense of humor. For a minute there, I actually thought... Never mind. Keeping my back to the not-at-all-humorous crazies in the diner, I dial.
Beep-beep-beep. “This number is out of service...” The computer voice crackles as it delivers the error message. Oops, I misdialed. I try again, slowly dragging my finger around the circle to be certain each number registers.
Same error message.
I won’t panic.
I try my office. And then my coworker Angie’s cell phone. And Kristyn’s. One after another, I try all my friends’ numbers, including those I haven’t called in years, which is most of them. I even try the pizza delivery number and my doctor’s office. At last, I dial 9-1-1. It fails.
“Your phone is broken,” I say. My voice is flat. Inside, I feel as if I am splintering. I’m trapped, trapped, trapped. No one knows I’m here. No one will save me. I’ll never leave. Mom needs me. I can’t reach her. The words chase each other in circles inside my head.
Victoria passes by me again, this time with plates balanced up and down her arms. “The Missing Man will explain it all. You don’t need to worry. He’ll help you. In the meantime, as entertaining as this is, I have to ask you to sit down. I have other customers that need attention.”
Obeying, I shuffle to the stool next to Merry and sit. “I don’t understand.” My eyes feel hot, like I’m about to cry. I bite the inside of my cheek.
“No one does when they first come here,” Merry says, her voice full of sympathy, too much sympathy, as if I’ve received a life-threatening diagnosis, “even though there’s a clear-as-day welcome sign on the way in to town. Whoever founded this place was overly literal, in my opinion.”
Victoria sets down two slices of pie, cherry and blueberry. Merry picks up a fork and dives with gusto into the cherry. I stare at the congealed blueberries. I try to tell myself I’m overreacting. Someone must have gas they can loan me. Someone must have a phone. There must be a way to contact the world outside this weird little bubble of a town. It can’t be cut off from the world. Maybe I could hitch a ride from someone... “My mother is sick.” I hate saying the words. But I can’t bring myself to say the worse word. Cancer. “Very sick. I have to go home. Please, I need help.”
Merry points to the window. “You see that man with the sack?”
I twist in my seat to look out. The man in the business suit is in the gutter in front of the diner. He’s still scooping pennies out of the filth and muck. He ignores the little girl with the bear and knife, and she ignores him.
“He used to own a Fortune 500 company,” Merry says. “Had his photo in magazines all the time. Dozens of girlfriends. Yachts. Summer homes. Trips to Europe whenever the whim struck him. He lost his company when the economy crashed. Of course, he didn’t lose it all. He still had a nice house with a swimming pool. Even kept one of his boats. But it wasn’t enough for him.”
“So how did he end up here?” I ask.
“Sailed here,” Merry says.
“He couldn’t have sailed here,” I say. “This is a desert.”
“He says he did,” Merry says, “and I’m not the type to call people liars. He is searching for his lost good luck. He thinks it’s in a penny.”
“He’s crazy.”
“To quote a certain cat, ‘we’re all mad here.’” Her voice is gentle. It’s obvious she is trying to instill an Important Message, but I don’t get it. Or maybe I don’t want to get it. “You’ll understand this place soon enough, and you’ll discover why you’re here. The Missing Man will help you. If you can’t find what you need in town, he can search the void for you. It’s his specialty. The Finder helps you arrive; the Missing Man will help you leave.”
“Again with the Missing Man.” My voice is shaking, but I haven’t cried, so that’s a victory of sorts. I don’t want to cry in front of these people. I didn’t cry when my mother was first diagnosed. I was strong for her then because I knew she’d recover. She had to. I can be strong now when I’ve been...inconvenienced. “I’m expecting him to arrive on a winged chariot with an entourage of angels singing hallelujahs.”
“He’d never approve of that much pomp, but I surely wouldn’t bat an eye if he did,” Merry says. She points to my pie as the bell over the door rings behind us. “Finish. It’s on me.” She pats my hand. “Really nice to have met you. Hope you find what you need soon. And maybe we’ll meet up again one day.” She saunters away behind me toward the door.
I pick up my fork and then put it down. I don’t want pie. I want explanations and reassurance and help. I want this mysterious Missing Man to appear and say, “surprise, it’s all a joke” or a trick or a nightmare or a delusion. I’m running out of reasonable explanations.
Behind me, I hear a man say, “Hello, Merry.”
“I’m ready,” Merry says cheerfully.
“Yes, you are. And you found what you needed on your own. Congratulations.” He has a deep, reassuring voice. I want to turn to see if his face matches the calm, soothing tone, but I’ve had enough of talking to strangers.
I look out the window. The little girl is sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk. She walks her bear up and down the concrete. His head flops from side to side. The knife lies beside her.
As if she senses me looking at her, the girl looks up.
Behind me, the man says, “You were lost; you are found.” As if they’re one, everyone outside—the kids, the woman planting dead flowers, the man in the dirty business suit—all turn to face the diner.
Inside the diner, everyone applauds.
I twist around on the stool and see an older man alone by the door. Dressed in a gray suit, he’s tan with white hair and a soft, well-trimmed beard. He carries a black leather briefcase with gold clasps and a cane with a black handle. He reminds me of a kindly old doctor, the kind who hands out lollipops with each checkup. Grape lollipops with Tootsie Roll inside.
Mug halfway to his mouth, the trucker spills coffee on the table and doesn’t notice. A woman in a housecoat looks as if she wants to drop to her knees and kiss his feet. Even severe Victoria wipes her hands nervously on her apron.
“You’re the Missing Man,” I guess. I glance at the door behind him, surprised that Merry didn’t stay to introduce him. But I suppose an introduction is unnecessary. It’s obvious from everyone’s behavior that it’s him.
He smiles, and it’s as warm as sunshine. “You’ve been expecting me. That’s good.”
I nod and realize I’m smiling back at him. I didn’t intend to—for all I know, he’s responsible for trapping me here—but he exudes kindness in everything from the gentleness of his expression to the reassuring tone of his voice.
“I am here to help you,” he says. “I am your guide, your mentor, and your friend. I will stand beside you until you can stand on your own. If a door shuts to you, I will open a window. If you fall, I will pick you up. If your load is too heavy, I will carry it. Until you find what is missing, I am here for you.”
It’s a pretty speech, and I want to believe him. “Can you help me get home? Can you tell me where I am? What is this place? Why can’t I leave? Who are these people—”
“Slow down. Let’s begin at the beginning, and then I will answer all your questions.” His smile crinkles his eyes and washes over me like sunshine. “I am the Missing Man. And you are?”
“Lauren,” I say. “Lauren Chase.”
The pleasant smile fades from his face. “Lauren Chase.” His eyes are cold as he backs away from me. “No.” Without another word, the Missing Man pivots and bolts out of the diner. The bell above the door rings behind him.
Chapter Five
The bell dies in the silence.
Through the glass door, I watch the Missing Man stride away from the diner. His cane hits the sidewalk in a rhythmic thump. I don’t know why I can hear it when he’s outside and I’m inside, but the thud-thud-thud echoes in my bones.
The diner customers cluster at the windows.
Seeing the Missing Man, the man in the gutter waves and races after him. The Missing Man brushes him away, and the former CEO falls behind. His expression is stunned, as if he’d been stabbed by the cane instead of merely brushed aside.
Emerging from the alleys, the kids trail after him as if he’s the Pied Piper. One, a girl about eight or nine, lunges toward him. She clings to his sleeve. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her face is twisted as if she’s crying. He shrugs her off. She falls on the pavement, but he doesn’t pause. Another kid helps her stand.
In front of the boarded-up post office, the woman who was planting flowers hobbles after him. She reaches her hands toward the Missing Man. He doesn’t even slow. More men and women pour out of the shops and the houses. He walks ahead of them all. As he reaches the barber shop, I have to press against the glass to still see him.
“Out,” Victoria says to me. Her voice is cold. “You aren’t welcome here.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, still watching. He’s at the end of the shops. People trail behind him, a comet tail to his meteorite. He doesn’t seem the kindly savior anymore.
“The Missing Man has never refused anyone before,” Victoria says. “He helps all. The weak, the broken, the bad. But he refused you, and now look, he refuses them. Us. You need to leave so he’ll return.”
Her words feel like ice-cold water in my face. This is not my fault! “I’m trying to leave! He was supposed to help. You said he’d help me.” I point at her. “You said he’d explain. You told me to talk to him! ‘Talk to the Missing Man,’ you said. Over and over.”
“Sean,” Victoria calls.
The man in the kitchen comes out of the swinging door. He’s a beefy man with shockingly red hair and tattoos that run up his arms. He wears a white T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Towels smeared with grease are tucked into loops on his belt.
The trucker stands up.
Other customers shift closer.
“Leave my diner.” Victoria’s face is as implacable as her royal namesake’s. She looks as if she wishes to crush me in her fist, to shatter me.
I back toward the door and fumble behind me to push it open. “All I did was say my name. He doesn’t know me. This has to be a mistake.”
“It’s not a risk we’re willing to take.” Sean’s voice is gentler than Victoria’s, almost sympathetic. “If the Missing Man doesn’t want to help you, then we cannot afford to. We need him.”
“Out,” Victoria says.
I lean against the door and stumble over the threshold.
On the sidewalk, the little girl sits with her teddy bear. She whispers to the bear as she watches me with wide eyes. I cross the street as quickly as possible.
All of the customers are at the window, also watching me.
The trucker, the waitress, the cook, the little girl. All watching me.
My limbs lock as my mind chases itself: What do I do? Where do I go? Who will help me now? The Missing Man was supposed to help me. He has the answers. As if they were a taut rubber band suddenly released, my muscles unlock, and I stride down the street after the Missing Man.
The street is full of people. They mill around, bereft, as if everyone lost a loved one all at once. Kids cling to each other. A woman sobs loudly in front of the post office. I hear muted conversations, speculation as to why the Missing Man left them so abruptly, and I think it won’t be long before word of what happened in the diner spreads to the rest of the town. I lengthen my stride. I already know the people in this town are crazy; I don’t want to see them crazy and angry.
Ahead, the Missing Man is a silhouette between the houses on the outskirts of town. If I can catch him...make him explain...make him come back...then I can fix this. As I reach the end of the shops, I look back over my shoulder. The diner customers have come outside, and people cluster around them. A few point toward me, which causes others to notice me.
They begin to trail after me. I think of zombies, the way they shamble after me.
I pick up my pace. The Missing Man is no more than a pinprick in the distance. Somehow, he’s outdistanced me. But I keep walking, passing abandoned houses until there are no more houses.
On either side of the road, the desert stretches away to the horizon. Clouds streak the sky, but do not move. The red earth is as still as a painting. The only sound is the wind and the crackle of dead branches as the wind slaps them against the barbed-wire fence.
I look back over my shoulder again. The men, women, and kids have halted by the last house. They stand still and silent, clumped together, watching me with hollow eyes. When I look back at the road, the dot that was the Missing Man has vanished. He’s gone.
I keep walking because I don’t know what else to do. After a while, my feet begin to ache on the pavement so I switch to walking on the dirt alongside the road. The wind swirls the dirt around me. It’s the only sound in the desert.
The sun begins to set. It looks as if it’s painting the sky. It dyes the sky orange and gold. Clouds look dipped in rose-pink. On the opposite side of the sky, the blue deepens, and a few stars begin to come out. I think of the man in the trench coat, talking about the Milky Way, and I think I haven’t seen such a beautiful sunset in... I can’t remember when I last watched the sun set.
Still, though, it doesn’t feel late enough for it to be sunset. I’d woken at dawn, made my attempts, been pushed back into town... I check my watch. It’s stopped at 8:34.
I am not surprised when I see my car ahead, next to the Welcome to Lost sign, even though I left town in a different direction. I feel as though I’ve walked away my capacity for shock. I have no surprise or disbelief or anything left in me. I unlock the car, climb inside, and then relock it. I feel empty, and I think of my mother, alone in our apartment with the low buzz of the TV. After a while, I climb into the backseat and lie down.
Somehow, as the stars spread thick across the wide sky, I sleep.
* * *
I wake contorted in the backseat of my car. My neck aches. My back feels sore. My breath tastes like stale peanut butter. I’m hungry, thirsty, and I need to pee. Sitting up, I stretch. Sunrise is peeking over the horizon. This is the third day I have been wearing the same clothes.
I climb out of the car. The air is chilled. I hug my arms as I look across the desert. I see no one and nothing in any direction except more red earth.
“Now what?” I ask out loud.
I half expect to hear an answer. But I only hear wind. I relieve myself on the desert side of the car and wish I had toilet paper. Or anything useful at all.
Food.
Water.
Clean clothes.
A working phone. Or a ham radio. Or a telegraph.
I remember the carry-on suitcase that cost me a roll of Life Savers. If I’m lucky, it will have fresh clothes, toiletries, maybe even food... I wish I’d brought the toiletries from the motel. I’d had a toothpaste tube and a travel deodorant. I pop open the trunk of the car and unzip the suitcase.
It’s a businessman’s carry-on: a suit with extra shirts and ties, gym shorts, dress shoes. Most of the clothes are wrinkled and worn, but there’s one spare shirt that’s still crisply folded. I find a Ziploc bag with toiletries and a brush. I pull off my wilted shirt, use the deodorant, and put on the spare business shirt. It hangs midthigh, but it feels so clean that it’s like a breath of spring air on my skin. I keep my same pants and shoes, but I use his clean socks, folding them over twice. I drag his comb through my hair—every strand knotted while I slept—and I use his toothpaste with my finger as the toothbrush. I also look through the suitcase for anything that resembles food or drink. I only find mouthwash. “Not helpful,” I inform the suitcase. It doesn’t respond.
I’ll have to head back into town.
By now, people must have calmed down and realized that what happened with the Missing Man wasn’t my fault. I’d said my name; he’d left. I hadn’t forced him to leave or said anything offensive or committed a crime. Victoria may even feel badly for her overreaction. She was, after all, the one who told me to talk to him. I’ll buy some water and food, and I’ll check back into the motel again until I figure out a way to leave this place or contact home.
It’s a plan, a shaky one but a plan nonetheless. Mom would approve. She likes plans. I remember as a kid we’d play a “game” where we’d both write out our one-year, five-year, and ten-year plans. Mine featured moon visits, Guggenheim exhibits of my artwork, and a pet that was more active than the class turtle I was occasionally permitted to babysit—or turtle-sit. Mom’s included travel, too, writing a book, and learning to cook a Thanksgiving turkey. She mastered the last one, but the book and the travel never happened. She’d put it off for years. Never enough time. Never enough money. And since she became sick...well, she hadn’t done it yet.
Pushing back thoughts about Mom, I look through the side pockets of the carry-on. I find a box of Tic Tacs and a granola bar. I’m about to dive into the granola bar when I remember that Tiffany had coveted one. The waitress had mentioned the barter system. I could trade this, maybe for a full meal or a gallon of water or even gas. I tuck it into my pocket and then rifle through the carry-on again, this time focusing on items that I can trade. If I can’t count on kindness and sympathy, I think, maybe I can buy help.
Cuff links. A nice belt. A box with a silk scarf, clearly meant as a present, as well as a kid-size T-shirt from the San Diego Zoo with a picture of a fuzzy bear on it. It reminds me of the girl with the teddy bear, the knife, and the empty eyes. I stuff all four items into my purse. I’m ready.
This could be a mistake. But the alternative is to keep walking until I die like my car did inside the dust storm that seems to separate this place from the rest of the world. I have to head back into town. It’s the only practical option.
I compliment myself on being practical and hope I’m not being stupid.
Shouldering my purse, I lock the car and head down the road toward town. I have time for second thoughts, third thoughts, and fourth thoughts, but then I’m there.
A lost red balloon drifts over the post office. And then back. And then over again. There isn’t any wind.
Keeping to the opposite side of the street from the diner, I walk briskly toward the motel lobby. I see the same former CEO picking his way through the gutter. The woman in the pink tracksuit lies on the front stoop of a house with peeling white paint. She’s counting her fingers over and over. Neither notices me. I don’t make eye contact with anyone.
As I enter the hotel lobby, the chimes ring discordantly. I call out, “Hello? Anyone here? Tiffany?”
A sweet Southern voice answers, “At your beck and call...” Tiffany sweeps into the lobby in a frothy pink dress. Her hair is blond now and done up in a twist. She wears demure gold earrings and an oversize pearl necklace. “You.” She halts and drops the fake smile.
