The Leisure Seeker: A Novel (11 page)

“I look like the wreck of the
Hesperus,
” I mutter.

John turns and says, “I think you look beautiful.”

I look at my husband. It’s been ages since he’s said anything like that to me. I think about how I used to crave his compliments, how I used to believe them, how they used to keep me from cringing when I looked in the mirror.

“You’re full of it,” I say, playing a game of ours from long ago.

“That’s true, but I still think you’re beautiful.”

Damn this man. Damn him to hell for still loving me, even now.

We approach the town of Texola. Just off the road, we see ancient cars parked along property lines, rusting hulks with
FOR SALE
signs fading in the sun, as if they are waiting for some classic car collector to come rescue them from the junk-yard. The grass is burnt brown. The buildings are crumbling. There’s no one in sight.

Seven

TEXAS

The late afternoon sun angles in hard on us. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but it’s hotter here. I guess even though it’s fall, it’s still Texas. We put on our big sungoggles, roll up the windows, and turn on the air-conditioning for the first time. Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long to realize that the air-conditioning doesn’t work very well. John probably hasn’t had it recharged in years. I turn it up all the way, but the air it blows is mossy and acrid, just barely cool.

The other thing I realize is something I already knew. The exhaust problem that Kevin mentioned was never fixed. Consequently, rolling up the windows is not a good idea. Tepid air is not the only thing coming from the vents; there is also a mist of exhaust pouring in. Within minutes, we’re both yawn
ing like crazy. I turn off the AC, roll the windows down, and immediately feel better. John wakes up as well.

Even still, I fear I may have pushed him too hard today. He’s talking to himself under his breath, like he’s forgotten I’m here. I’m hoping we’ll find somewhere to stay in Shamrock, which is the next big town. I check my books for campgrounds and am relieved to find one right on West I-40, parallel to 66.

After passing a fancy 1930s art deco gas station called the “U Drop Inn,” we arrive at the campground. I have John park near the check-in station. He turns off the engine.

“Is this home?”

He’s tired and disoriented. “No, John. I’m going to go check us in. You don’t need to come.” I grab my cane and purse, then slowly lower myself from the van. I’m feeling shaky, so I try to be extra careful. Halfway to the office, I think of something so I turn and head back to the van.

“Oh John, could you give me the keys?” I say sweetly. Without discussing the matter, John hands them over.

When I stump into the office with my cane, the old man behind the counter just stands there staring at me as I walk up. He frowns and snorts, as if to say “This one’s ready for the glue factory.”

I should tell you, I have no tolerance for staring, particularly with people my age, who love to act like the whole world is their television. It grinds me, especially since most of us spent our best years telling our children that it’s impolite to stare. I don’t know where this one gets off. He’s no prize, be
lieve you me: greasy fishing hat, a forehead mole you could hang a hat on, and a face that looks like he’s been sniffing Limburger cheese for the past dozen or so years.

I stare right back at him.

“Hello,” he finally says, blinking. I guess I win.

“Good afternoon,” I say, after a long pause. “We need a campsite for the night.”

“All right,” he says, a low Texas growl to his voice. “We’re pretty open today. Anywhere in particular?”

From what I could see, all the spaces look the same, a few trees here and there, but mostly flat and dry.

“Near a shower facility would be good,” I tell him. I give him a twenty. He fills out a card, tears off part of that, and hands it to me with my change. Then he starts eyeballing me again.

“Pardon me? Is there something wrong?” I say to him, huffy now, raring for it.

“Are you ready?” he says, his voice gentler now.

“Ready for what?” My hand tightens on the grip of my cane.

“Ready to accept Jesus as your personal savior?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I say, too tired for this. “Maybe some other time.”

“Never too late, you know.”

“I know,” I say, making a break for the door, fast as I can haul myself.

Once we find the site and I get John out of the van, he’s a little better. He can still set up the electricity. I watch him
closely because I’m not sure when I’ll have to do it. If he gets worse as the trip wears on, it’ll be up to me. That is, unless I accept Jesus as my personal savior, then maybe He can do it.

We are so pooped by the time we get settled that we both just conk out—John on the bed, me at the table after taking my meds. (I’m more comfortable sitting up sleeping these days. Lying down seems more of a commitment, fraught with responsibilities and forebodings.) It’s only 4:15 but it feels like it’s about 10:00
P.M.
I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I do remember to turn a light on so we don’t wake up in the dark like last time.

When I wake up, the air in the van is hot and still. I’m not in the dark, but I am alone. John is gone. I grab my cane, get myself up, and head outside, but he’s not sitting at the picnic table. He’s nowhere around. I start to panic.

A few trailers are parked nearby, yet no one seems to be around. We’re only a short ways from the restrooms, so I head over there.

“Is anyone in there?” I yell at the men’s room entrance. Nothing. I hobble on in. The place is deserted. Just concrete and wads of paper towel and the sour tang of urine.

I head for the office, but it’s a good half block away. Along the way, every bad thing that could happen runs through my head—John walking along the highway getting hit by a car; John lost in the woods never to be found again; disoriented John picked up by strangers.

I shuffle along until I get to the check-in office. I am already exhausted and ready to weep. Luckily, the Jesus fellow is behind the counter and while he does give me the stare again, he is at least civil.

“Hello,” he says. His low-pitched voice now gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I have to be nice because he’s my only chance.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen my husband pass by? He’s about six feet tall, a little hunched over, with a green shirt and a tan golf cap on?”

Old Jesus just looks at me for a second. I think he’s going to give me his spiel again, but he doesn’t. “A man that fits that description passed by a short while ago.”

“He did? How long?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes ago,” he says, his voice gaining a little speed now, sounding more human to me, which gives me a teaspoon of hope.

“That’s him. Look, could you help me? He occasionally has little spells where he doesn’t know where he is. I’m afraid he’s going to get lost or hurt.”

“Should I call the police?”

“Let’s not do that yet.” I’ve had enough of the police for today. “Do you have a car? Maybe we could just drive around. He’s probably not far away.”

Old Jesus looks highly alarmed at this idea.

“I’m sure it won’t take long,” I say.

“I can’t leave my post here. Can’t you just drive your camper?”

I’m really starting to get scared now. “I can’t drive that thing. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

He thinks for a moment, and it looks like hard work for him. I want to smack him one, but he’s got to be the one to help me. There’s really no one else around. He’s silent for a good thirty seconds.

“Please,”
I say.

Finally, he speaks. “I could see if Terry could drive you. He’s our groundskeeper. He’s got a truck.”

“That would be fine. Please hurry.”

Another bout of hard thinking. Finally, he picks up a phone and methodically punches in the numbers. Meanwhile, I’m picturing John walking around in traffic, horns blaring. I don’t think he’d be crazy enough to do that, but I just don’t know anymore. I watch Old Jesus’ face as he listens to the phone ring. It’s like staring through a screen door at an empty house. I hear someone answer at the other end.

“Terry? It’s Chet at the office. There’s a lady here who needs some help. We were wondering—”

He stops for a moment and listens. I can tell Terry is not cooperating.

“I know. She says she needs help. I can’t leave the desk.”

More talking. Finally, I pipe up. “May I speak to him, please?”

Chet looks appalled at the idea. The phone has suddenly become like the desk. He can’t abandon it. Finally, I just grab it from him. “Hello, Terry?”

There is a long pause and I think I’ve stumbled onto a cult
of dim-witted Christians, but when Terry speaks, he sounds fairly normal. “Who is this?” he says.

“Terry, I’m the woman who needs the help. This is an emergency. My husband is lost, and I’m afraid he’s going to be hurt. He has spells where he’s disoriented. Could you just please come here? I just need you to drive me around the area. I’ll be happy to pay for your gas and time.”

“I’ll be there in a minute or so, ma’am.”

Sure enough, within a minute, a little maroon pickup truck with gold hubcaps rumbles up to the door of the office and honks. I hear a deep
whomp-whomp
rhythm vibrating from the radio.

“Thank you very much,” I say to Chet, who is now gazing off into space. Actually, I’m hoping he’ll say something spiritually encouraging right now because I could use it, but he obviously doesn’t have it in him. He just turns and stares at me.

The music cuts off. I head outside expecting to have to raise myself into the passenger side of the pickup truck, but it is actually quite low. As I twist myself in, I realize I’m getting in a truck with a complete stranger. I look at who’s driving and decide that this is probably where most abduction witness testimonies begin.
She never should’ve gotten into that truck with that man
.

Terry, I should say here, scares the living hell out of me. He’s around twenty years old, the last remnants of acne across his jutting cheekbones, with long dishwater brown hair streaming out from under a black watch cap that looks like it hasn’t been washed in a month of Sundays. His T-shirt is black, his baggy
pants are black (with chains hanging from them), the fingerless glove on his right hand is black—everything he’s wearing is black. The front of his shirt has a greenish photograph of a downright evil-looking man with long puke-colored hair and a powder white face with a bloody X scratched into his forehead. Underneath the picture, it says:

100% HARDCORE

FLESH-EATING

BLOOD-DRINKING

LIFE-SUCKING

ZOMBIE

HELLBILLY!

Yet once I get past all that, I give him a better look and I can’t help but be reminded of my Kevin when he was that age: trying so hard to look tough, but betrayed by the gentleness of his eyes. The truck smells of cigarettes and perspiration and the artificial strawberry scent from the flaming pentagram air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

“I’m Terry,” he says, holding out his gloved hand to shake mine. I notice his other hand has a word tattooed just below the knuckles. It says “O F F!”

“Ella.” I shake his hand and try to smile. This is no time for me to be choosy. If Satan has decided to help me as opposed to what was back at the office, then so be it. Though I think both would be well advised to reconsider their role models.

“You’re sweating,” Terry says to me. It’s a strange thing to say.

I touch my forehead and see that he is absolutely correct about this. “I’m worried about my husband.”

“Sounds like Chester in there wasn’t so much help,” he says, pulling at the random straggly hairs on his chin.

I look at this child. “No, I can’t say that he was,” I say sharply. “Are you going to be any help?”

He purses his lips together in an exaggerated manner and nods. “We’ll find the old dude,” he says, as we pull out onto I-40.

Like I haven’t seen enough of this goddamned road today. A half mile up, we see someone in a beige jacket walking on the shoulder.

“Is that him?” says Terry, pointing.

“No,” I say. “John’s got a green shirt on.” I can see through the knuckle holes on his glove that Terry has something or other tattooed on his right hand. It occurs to me that if Terry ever wants to get another job, having things tattooed on his hands is not going to be considered an asset by most employers.

I sigh and I’m afraid I do it a bit louder than I mean to. Terry looks at me, and I’m surprised by the concern in his voice. “We’ll find him. I’m telling you. It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet in the truck for a minute. Terry turns to me and says, “My grammy had it, too.”

“Had what?”

“I don’t know,” he says, half shrugging. “Whatever they call it. That dude’s name. The disease. She used to go walking around the neighborhood. She had to go into a nursing home. She was dead in a year.” Terry softly exhales. “She was the only one in my family worth a shit.” He looks into the rearview mirror, then at me. “Sorry.”

This young man obviously has me mixed up with some old lady who doesn’t cuss like a longshoreman. I look at him and try to smile. “It’s all right,” I say. “It’s an emergency.”

I scan the side of the road. There are a few little stores scattered here and there. He could be at any of them. We pass an old Standard gas station, then a bright-painted sign shaped like an ice cream cone that says
DAIRY IGLOO
. Off the road, a big penguin waves to us from the side of a white-painted cinder-block hut. People are gathered around it, either waiting in line or eating ice cream cones. A little farther from the place is a cluster of picnic tables. That’s where I see John. He’s sitting and eating a chocolate frozen custard.

“There he is!” I yell. “Pull over.”

“Where?”

I point frantically to the right. “The ice cream place. Over there!”

Terry steers us into the parking lot and we pull up almost right next to John. He looks at me. I’m sure he doesn’t recognize me since I’m in this strange little truck. I open the door and pull myself out.