The Never-Open Desert Diner (18 page)

I couldn't help smiling a little. Walt hadn't said anything particularly funny. He was serious as a judge, which was strictly what he was. “I believe you,” I said.

“I brought the body back here. I'd just built that little water closet. Seemed like a fitting final resting place.”

Part of me agreed. I joined Walt looking back toward the small room. Neither one of us had anything more to say for a few minutes.

“You love Bernice, don't you?” He didn't say it or mean it exactly as a question, simply a confirmation.

I didn't correct him. I knew that he'd meant to say Claire, though in his mind he thought of them almost as one person. Maybe I should have taken a moment before I spoke. A moment or an hour wouldn't have changed what I had to say. “Yes, Walt,” I said. “I believe I do.”

“When you two get married, I'll deed you Desert Home as a wedding present. Every square inch of it. Not that it's worth much to the world. You've never had a home, have you, Ben?”

I told him I hadn't.

“You'll have one then. You both will. She could do worse than a truck driver. From what she's told me, she already has. Just keep fresh flowers on our graves.”

“Graves?”

“I want to be buried next to Bernice, if you don't mind. There's room for Claire, and you, too, if you want. Bernice would like that.”

“Are you putting God on notice, Walt?”

He thought about that for a moment. “I think I am.”

“I think you've got a few good years left,” I said.

Walt ignored me. “I'd like the diner to go…” It seemed to me as if he were trying to recall a name. It wasn't a name. “…back to the desert,” he said. “Just let it go. You know how things fall apart out here. Leave it be. Nature will take care of it sooner than you'd think.”

Walt winked at me. “I feel like a nap. I didn't sleep well last night.”

“Walt?” I didn't know how to ask him the question. I knew I shouldn't ask it at all. “Why'd you keep the corpse?”

Walt got off the stool and walked to the empty doorway. He raised his face to the bright desert sky. “Ben,” he said, “I can't give you a good reason. I guess I just like to take a piss on him once in a while, knowing he's in hell. He's in hell with nothing but flames and that photo of the three of us for a view. God help me, sometimes it makes me feel better. You can bury him if you want to.” He took a few more steps toward the back door of the diner and stopped. With his back to me, he asked, “You still think I'm crazy?”

I told him I did.

“Maybe so,” he said, with as much surrender in his voice as I'd ever heard. “I damn well earned it.”

“I'll replace your door,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “you will.” He went inside the diner for his nap.

I
borrowed some of Walt's tools and set about trying to repair the door I had kicked down. It was mostly in pieces. The following week I would have to buy a new one, and probably a new frame. Cobbling pieces together to have something to hang on the hinges would have to serve. The door to the restroom had to be in about the same condition. I wasn't ready to go back there. When I did, maybe in a few days or a week, I'd remove the first man and bury him somewhere in the desert. It wouldn't be proper, or even legal, not that there was a chance he would object. Even less chance I would be held accountable by the law if the instant funeral was ever discovered. He had served his purpose and overstayed his welcome.

True, Walt was crazy. Just because he was crazy didn't mean I couldn't agree with the sense he made. It did make sense to me, crazy sense. I tried not to think about whether that meant we were both crazy. It did get me to consider heaven and hell while I worked on the door.

Sometimes I believed in hell; sometimes I didn't. There hadn't ever been a time I believed in heaven, though for Walt and Bernice, I was willing to make an exception. Thankfully, it wasn't up to me when it came to Walt. Whatever he had done, or not done, he'd paid handsomely in this life for his choices. I doubted he would have considered them choices at all. If for no other reason than pure loyalty to Walt and the way I felt about Claire, this was one of those times I believed in hell, or wanted to. Not for him, but for the men who raped Bernice.

I also felt a certain strange gratitude to the man. After all, if not for him, or maybe the others, neither Walt nor I would have Claire. Walt knew that I would bury him sooner or later. That was what he wanted. He couldn't just come out and ask me. Claire was right. Walt was changing. My preference would have been for him to change a little more quickly, at least prior to our dinner the night before.

When it came to heaven or hell for myself, God could put me right back on 117. He'd get no argument from me, although I might respectfully request that he pick up the fuel costs and see that my customers paid me, on time, if possible. It's not heaven or hell, just a straight stretch down the middle of the two. Maybe a little of both. Just 117.

Claire came around the corner of the diner. “What's all the pounding?” She looked at the shattered door then back at me. “Is Walt okay?”

“He's taking a nap.”

She gasped. “He's unconscious!”

I went to her and kissed her cheek. “No,” I said, “he's really taking a nap.” I glanced over my shoulder to the window of Walt's apartment. It was open, and the drawn curtains moved slightly.

“A nap? I've never known him to take a nap.”

“Well,” I said, “he's taking one now. He threw me a bone. Said he didn't sleep well last night.” We heard a short cough from inside his room. “Trust me, Claire, he's in fine shape. I promise.”

She seemed satisfied that no harm had come to Walt.

“I just made the call to Dennis. He's on his way. I gave him directions.” My face twisted when she said his name. She raised her voice a bit and directed it toward the open window. “I told him to come alone and not to stop at the diner. Not for coffee. Not for directions. Not for anything.” We both waited for another cough and got one. “Should I ask about the door?”

“No,” I said. “Someday you can ask Walt if you want to.” There was no cough this time.

Claire followed me into the workshop while I replaced Walt's tools. “Dear Ben,” she said, “you have to get home and take a shower. A long, hot one. Stop and pick up some lye soap and a box of steel wool. I don't want to tell you what you smell like.”

“You don't have to,” I said.

“Since Walt is taking a nap, would you take this?” She pulled the revolver from a small leather bag that was slung over her shoulder. I recognized it as the one she had pointed at me with such skill. “The second day I was here Walt insisted on giving me the gun and lessons on how to use it. He said there were some vicious animals out here. I needed it for protection. But I haven't seen much in the way of animals. The only time I ever brought it out was when you came back.”

“I remember,” I said.

Walt hadn't been thinking of snakes and coyotes when he gave Claire the gun. He had been thinking of the kind of animals that drive up in a Chevrolet Biscayne one desert evening. Claire probably knew that was what he had been thinking.

“I could tell you knew how to use it,” I said. “I'm not glad you pointed it at me. I am glad Walt gave it to you. You should consider keeping it.”

She held the revolver out to me. “I think you should take it. I don't like to admit it, but I've got a temper. I don't want anything to happen.”

I told her I understood and took the gun.

“I just want to give Dennis the cello and tell him he's a poor excuse for a man.”

“Thought you'd have said that by now.”

“Many times.”

“You think maybe he's forgotten?”

I watched the smile do its slow travel across Claire's face. “I know you don't want me to see him, Ben. But I want to. Then it's over.”

Would it ever be over? I wondered. “If you want it over,” I said, “it will be over. If it doesn't turn out that way, I'll understand.”

“You wouldn't fight to win me?”

“Sure I would,” I said, “if you wanted to be won. Of course, there are some women who can't be won; they just like men fighting over them. I'd like to think you're not one of those women, Claire. I'd like it if there wasn't anything to win, just giving.”

“Good,” she said. “That's the way I feel, too. When I first found out about Dennis I was prepared to fight for him. After a while I realized all either one of us meant to him was that damn cello. I might have fought for him if for one minute I thought it was just a matter of showing him how much I loved him. Then I realized just what you said, you can't ever win what isn't freely given. I realized I didn't love him anymore. I hadn't loved him for a long time. If I still loved him…if I loved him, this morning would have never happened. I hope you know that.”

“I'd hoped that was true,” I said. “I wouldn't want you if it wasn't.”

“Remember when I asked you about your rules?”

I nodded.

“I wasn't just thinking about your rules. I was thinking about mine, too. Until I give Dennis the cello back I'm still married to him. Now please, please, go home and take a shower.” She blew me a kiss. “I want to kiss you, but the way you look and smell makes me want to gag.”

“You sure you want me to come back tonight?” I asked. “I mean, if Dennis is on his way? I don't think you want me to be there when you talk to him. I shouldn't be there.” I thought of her temper. I thought of my own. “Or maybe you think I should be
—
in case something happens.”

“No, I don't want you there. He said he couldn't get here until at least tomorrow night. I understand your concern, though. Walt will be nearby. I'm sure of it.”

So was I.

“If you're not at the house by seven, I'll take one of Walt's motorcycles and come looking for you. I'll make dinner. And mister, you better have cleaned up. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“Now go!”

Claire escorted me to my truck and watched me climb into the cab. It took a couple of attempts to successfully manage the climbing. She started to come over to assist me, and I waved her away. “Don't,” I said. “I have my pride.”

“Where was your pride last night?”

She walked alongside the cab as I maneuvered out onto the white gravel apron. When she reached the front of the diner, she stopped. From there she blew me a kiss and waved good-bye to me as I pulled out on 117. It was a small gesture, perhaps even unimportant, except no woman had ever done it before. My eyes stayed on my side mirrors until she had disappeared, and then for a while longer.

I
made it into Price late in the afternoon. On Sundays the gates to the transfer were locked at two. I wouldn't be able to park my truck in the yard or get my pickup. It was just as well. The fewer times I had to get in and out of a truck or a pickup the better. The Price police and my neighbors didn't like me parking my truck and trailer on the city street in front of my duplex. I might get a parking ticket. I didn't care.

A pregnant teenager sat on my front steps. This one was larger and heavier than Ginny. It occurred to me my duplex was sending out a homing beacon to pregnant teenagers. She didn't look lost. She seemed to know exactly where she was and for whom she was waiting. She watched me as I parked my truck and trailer and greeted me with a shy smile that revealed the effects of a hard life on soft teeth. I made my way up the walk. A pile of cigarette butts lay at her feet.

She got right to the point. “You're Ben Jones, right?” Her name was Miranda and she was a friend of Ginny's. “Have you seen Ginny?” she asked.

“Not for a couple of days,” I said. “Is she missing?”

Miranda nodded gravely. “She told me you two were kinda friends and where you lived. I asked around until I found the right house.”

Miranda took a close look at my face. “You don't look so good. Are you okay?”

“No,” I said. “I had a tough night.”

“You look like you've had a tough life,” she replied.

I could have said the same about her.

I wasn't too concerned about Ginny and admitted that yes, Ginny and I were “kinda friends.” Miranda wiggled her eyebrows up and down. I felt compelled to tell her that Ginny and I didn't have that kind of friendship. “I used to date her mother a long time ago,” I said, hoping that was all I needed to say. It wasn't.

“Why would that make any difference?” she asked.

“Believe me,” I said, feeling some anger, “it makes a big difference. She's seventeen and I've known her since she was a little girl.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I don't care. My old man is around your age.”

“I'm happy for both of you.” I didn't much care for the “old man” slang. “I'm sure she's fine,” I said. “Did you call her other friends? Work?”

“Ginny doesn't have many friends. Since she got pregnant the guys haven't been much interested. The girls we hung out with are still in high school and they don't want much to do with her.” I suddenly felt sorry for Ginny, sorrier than I had, though no less proud. “I've been letting her stay with me,” she continued, “but my boyfriend doesn't like it. He says having one bun warmer around is enough. He threatened to go back to his wife if I didn't tell Ginny to hit the road. She still sleeps at my place a couple times a week. During the day when he's at work.”

“What about work?”

“That's really what has me worried. I stopped by Walmart to say wassup, and the assistant manager said she didn't show up for her shift. She's so fired. And that job is all she has in the freakin' world.”

Now I was seriously concerned. I sat down next to Miranda. She sniffed the air. The smell didn't seem to bother her much. “I haven't seen her in a few days,” I said. “Can you think of anywhere else she might be?”

“She has this thing about going out in the desert by herself. I don't know where. Different places. She car camps. But she's about to pop. If the baby comes when she's out somewheres all alone…”

That was one bad possibility. Another was that she had come across her own variety of animals in a Chevrolet Biscayne. “What happens when you call her on her cell phone?”

Miranda started to cry. “It's been disconnected.”

“What about the college? She mentioned she was taking a class. Maybe her professor knows where she is?”

“I don't know nothin' about that.” Her big body began heaving with the sobs. “She's so smart. She's not like me. She had straight As in high school before she got knocked up by that bastard.”

The mention of the bastard made me think about Nadine. “Maybe she and her mother patched it up?”

Miranda shook her head. “I called. Her mom hung up on me.” Another sad possibility crossed her mind. “
You
didn't do anything to hurt her, did you?”

“Never,” I said, and patted her shoulder. “I like Ginny. In fact, I admire the hell out of her. She's a great kid.” I corrected myself. “She's a great woman.” There was a rising guilt in me about not letting her stay at my place. It was warm and safe. What would it have mattered? If
—
when
—
she showed up, I would make the offer. “Let me give you my phone number,” I said. “When she shows up or you hear from her, let me know.”

Once inside I remembered I didn't have a phone anymore. I wrote down the number of the transfer station and went back outside. I told Miranda that it was a work number and to leave me a message. “Next week I'll stop by the college and see if I can locate her professor. Maybe he knows something.”

Miranda made a couple of unsuccessful attempts at lifting herself off my steps. I offered her a hand. When she was on her feet, she asked me if I would take her number so I could text her if I heard from Miranda. I hadn't sent a text in my life. Even if I had a cell phone I wouldn't know how.

I took her number.

Miranda scribbled it on a matchbook she took from her purse. She took out a fresh cigarette from a pack.

“I'll call you,” I said. “You know you shouldn't smoke when you're pregnant.”

“I hear that a lot. But my boyfriend says it's not true. Doctors put that out there so they can make an extra dollar off us pregnant girls.”

There wasn't anything to say. That boyfriend of hers was all the wrong stuff. She offered me a cigarette. “I don't smoke,” I said.

She laughed. “You pregnant?” She lit her cigarette and waddled off down the street. “Text me!”

The shower water bounced off my body and ran brown and red for five minutes. After it ran clear I filled the tub and began scrubbing, carefully cleaning around the wounds so they wouldn't open up. That was the limit of my hot water for a while. Some of the wounds wept red and tinted the bathwater a vivid pink that reminded me of the evening at Desert Home and the mesa light pouring onto Claire as she played her silent cello. I closed my eyes and soaked and listened to the faucet drip.

I might just return the tractor-trailer to the leasing company. It might go better for me if I gave it to them rather than having it repossessed. There was no sense in postponing the inevitable. If Ginny hadn't shown up by then, I would go to the college and try to find her professor. I realized I'd let go of any ideas I had about saying good-bye to 117. In time folks would know I wasn't going to come around anymore and life would go on out there and in Rockmuse just as it always had, only without me.

It was better not to say farewell, better for them and better for me. Like what Walt wanted to happen to his diner, just let it go. Let the desert take it all back. Everything was on loan anyway. Maybe that was part of what Walt was trying to say in his workshop. Bernice had only been on loan to him and he let his guard down, and she was gone, repossessed in the blink of an eye. It took him forty years. Now he was letting go, giving her back to the desert.

The best part of 117 was Claire and Walt. I wondered when the time came for Claire to let go of the cello, of Dennis, if she wouldn't try to hold on the way Walt had done. It was possible, no matter what she said, that Claire would return to her husband and that the loan of her was already over, or soon would be. What the desert wants, in the end, it takes.

I showered again with lukewarm water and gently patted myself dry, leaving spots and streaks of fresh blood on the towel. The mirror helped me inventory the damage. My whole right side where Walt had kicked me was bruised blue. My face was swollen, especially the jaw where Walt had elbowed me. The only way I could get my left eye fully open was to use my fingers. I could see through it, except what looked back at me from the mirror was a red marble. The worst casualty was my ear. It was thick with blood and appeared to need my hair to keep it from falling off. It should have had stitches. I used almost a full tube of antibiotic and downed three Advil. The good news was the toes on my left foot didn't seem to be broken. They were blackened and stiff as nails. It hurt like hell when I wiggled them, but wiggle them I could.

I limped into the bedroom and gathered up my clothes. They went straight into a plastic bag to be thrown away. My skin and hair had picked up some of the stench from the urine-soaked corpse. I tied the plastic bag and washed my hands. I sat naked on my bed. Never in my life had I felt so tired and battered. Only the thought of seeing Claire at Desert Home kept me from collapsing backward on the bed and not moving for a week.