Thou Shalt Not Road Trip (7 page)

She looks away and studies the landscape. “Of everything.”

Alex hastily reopens her book. “This kind of open range is rare, and sometimes— Oh, it says that cattle have right-of-way, so slow down, Matt.”

Matt grunts and lets the speed fall by about one mile per hour.

Out here it’s impossible to get a sense of scale. The mountains on the horizon could be in another state, for all I know. The highway is still deserted. We haven’t passed another car all day.

In yet another dramatic change of scenery, the road swings left and right and the plains give way to solid rock walls and plunging gorges. I check my seat belt as we pass within a few feet of a seemingly bottomless drop.

“It says here that the road eventually passes through sheer rock walls and deep gorges,” says Alex, head still buried in her guidebook.

For a moment no one responds, but then Matt starts laughing, and I do too. Even Fran snorts. “Well, thank God for the guidebook,” says Matt. “We’d be screwed without it.”

Alex looks up suddenly and takes in her surroundings. When she makes the connection, she laughs. And then we’re all laughing together, sharing in her
silliness. It’s such a relief. Maybe this detour is a good thing after all.

We slow down, and Matt announces that we’ve arrived. I can see he’s right—we’re in a parking lot, and ours isn’t the only vehicle here, not by a long shot. But we’re still in the middle of nowhere.

We all clamber out. “Uh, Matt, where are we?” I ask.

“The end of the road. The rest is on foot, so get your hiking shoes on.”

“What hiking shoes?”

“Sneakers, then. Just not those,” he says, pointing at my black leather shoes. “Oh, and I’d only bring a toothbrush and a change of clothes, if I were you. Just what you absolutely need for an overnight stay.”

“A
what
?” Even Fran seems surprised.

“Just trust me, okay?” Matt sounds simultaneously amused and irritated.

“What about my book signing?”

“It’s not until tomorrow. Hey, you’ll thank me for this.”

I’m pretty sure I will
not
be thanking him, but the alternative is to spend the rest of the day and night by myself in a parking lot in the desert. So I grab my whole backpack—no way I’ll risk leaving it in the car—and accept when he offers me a liter of Gatorade, and then another. And another.

“Exactly how far is this place, Matt?” I ask.

“Not far. I just don’t want you getting dehydrated.”

I take a sip from one of the bottles. It’s lemon-lime, my favorite. “Thanks.”

“Hey, no worries.” He claps a hand on my back. “Gotta look after my little bro, right? Anyway, I couldn’t afford to get you airlifted out of here even if I wanted to.”

Havasupai Trail, Supai, Arizona

Fran is enjoying this, I can tell. The first mile of rapidly descending switchbacks was just a gentle warm-up for her, whereas I feel as though my knees have been used for batting practice. My quad muscles provide all the stability of Jell-O.

Now that the rocky path has leveled out somewhat, Fran’s calves, toned from another year of cross-country running, flex with each step. She peers over her shoulder at frequent intervals to check that I’m not lagging too far behind—or maybe to check that I
am
. I’m not in the right shape to be doing this. My gym teacher says I have the physique of a long-distance runner, but he just means that I’m skinny as
a rail. You wouldn’t be able to find my calves with a microscope. I have the cardiovascular fitness of an obese guinea pig. And I’ve already downed two liters of Gatorade just to stop from keeling over.

“Easy, bro,” Matt shouts as I uncap my last bottle.

“I’m thirsty,” I fire back. “Anyway, it can’t be much farther, right?”

Matt opens his mouth, closes it again, and finally settles for an ambivalent shrug.

“Right, Matt?”

He stops walking and waits for me to catch up. “Think of all that our Lord endured,” he says solemnly. “And you’re getting worked up about a four-hour hike?”

“Hold on, did you just say
four hours
?”

Matt shakes his head in disgust. “And you call yourself a Christian.” He chuckles as he rejoins the others just ahead of us.

“I can’t hike for four hours, Matt. Not in this heat.”

Alex and Fran turn away from the brewing argument.

“Then just sit by the path,” he says. “There’s a mule train that passes by every day.”

“You mean, I could hitch a ride?”

“Sure.” He scratches his chin. “Unless there’s no room, in which case you’ll be vulture fodder by lunchtime.”

Now that he mentions it, there are large birds flying overhead, and odd sounds echoing around the rust-red canyon. The path ahead of me is clear, and I have company, but on my own I’d be dead meat before nightfall.

“Come on,” says Fran. She pats my arm, and then stares at her hand as though it acted without her permission. “Remember the cat flap, Luke. What goes around comes around.”

Is she really comparing this situation to a passage from
Hallelujah
? Especially
that
passage. Our house doesn’t even have a cat flap, and I’ve never broken curfew. Is she suggesting I deserve this somehow?

“Thanks for the support,” I say, and Fran half smiles, like she can’t even detect the sarcasm in my voice.

Havasupai Lodge, Supai, Arizona

I’m out of Gatorade and I’ve consumed two of Matt’s energy bars by the time the village of Supai comes into view. It’s nestled on a plain between canyon walls—beautiful, in a remote way.

I slump down on a step as Matt heads inside the lodge. A few minutes later he emerges and leads us to our rooms. We check out the first of the two neighboring rooms: no TV, no phone. We’re in the land that time forgot.

I claim the bed nearest the door and flop down onto it.

Matt clears his throat. “We’ll meet in the café in thirty minutes. Got to get our energy levels back.”

Being horizontal feels really good. “I might be in the shower,” I tell him.

“Don’t bother. You’ll be sweating like a pig again this afternoon.”

“Why?” I look up, but Matt and Alex are leaving the room. “Why, Matt?”

There’s no reply. Meanwhile, Fran makes herself comfortable on the other bed.

“We can’t share a room again,” I tell her. “It isn’t right.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she says. “But it’s your turn to sleep in the car tonight.” She claps her hands. “Hey, if you set off now, you’ll be there by nightfall.”

She laughs as she tugs at her gray vest top. It’s sleeveless, and her shoulders are tan. If I ignore her ink-blemished arms and focus on just her shoulders, I can almost picture the way she used to be.

“You know, I wrote a book too,” she says. Her words
are softer than usual, less assured. “I was like you—got carried away with Andy’s assignment. Wrote a hundred and eleven pages.”

“I-I didn’t know that.”

She stares at the wall, lost in thought. “No one does. No one’s ever read it.”

“Why not?”

“By the time I finished it, I wasn’t going to church anymore. I wanted to show it to Andy, to talk it through—I think that would’ve helped—but he was busy with
Hallelujah
.”

“Which you don’t like.”

Now she makes eye contact. “What makes you say that?”

“Just a guess. Did you watch the Pastor Mike interview?”

“No. Why should I?”

I sit up and rummage through my bag in search of something to eat, but there’s nothing there. I’m practically wasting away, thanks to Matthew Dorsey’s sadistic weight loss program. “You hate this whole tour, don’t you?”

“I never said that. But now you mention it, why
did
you want your book published?”

It’s a simple question, but the answer is complicated: because Pastor Mike said I should; because I
was flattered; because the publisher paid me. Only, I don’t want to get into all that—not with Fran, anyway—so I go with one of Pastor Mike’s famous catchphrases instead: “It’s the job of every Christian to spread God’s word.”

“They’re not God’s words, Luke. They’re yours.” She runs a finger along the black lines on her left arm. “Did the Sunday school kids like it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had a chance to ask.”

“But you wrote it for them.”

Again, I wish it were that straightforward. At the time, I believed I was writing it for them. But really,
Hallelujah
was more like my spiritual journal: 150 pages of euphoria, followed by 100 pages of despondency. No one suspects that, because my editor rearranged every section. But
I
know. After editing the book for six months, I even begged him to take out the funny passages—told him they didn’t feel real to me anymore—but he refused. He said they were dynamite, and people needed optimism, and no one would buy a 100-page book. So I stopped arguing. Now it feels like he put those words in my mouth. As for the Sunday school kids, I guess I haven’t thought about them in weeks.

Fran is watching me.

“I’ve been really busy,” I tell her.

“Yeah. I guess you have. And hey, your book’s on course to be a best seller. But I can’t stop worrying about who you’ve become.”

“Hold on.
You’re
worried about who
I’ve
become?”

She smiles. “See what I mean? A year ago you never would’ve said that. Or even thought it. Because a year ago you didn’t feel superior to anyone.”

“What makes you so sure I do now?”

She takes a swig of Gatorade and places it deliberately on the nightstand beside her. “Good point. Fifteen–love. Or maybe we’ll just give you the game. Unless, you know… I’m right, and you do feel superior to me, even if you can’t admit it.”

She’s quiet then, and the chilly silence gives me all the time I need to work out that she’s absolutely right.

Havasu Falls, Supai, Arizona

It’s all Alex’s fault.

Matt, I can ignore. He’s the one who dragged me from my room and onto yet another dusty path, pushing
me like one of those hyperactive personal trainers on TV infomercials. I can pretty much tune him out. But Alex…

“Come on, Luke,” she says, my personal preppy cheerleader with the perfect perky ponytail. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” I say, more breath than words.

“Wherever Matt is taking us.”

She is Matt’s messenger—just a go-between—but I can’t be angry with her, and she knows it. Ahead of us, Matt bounds forward, eyes shifting from left to right in search of something I can’t see.

And then, finally, he stops.

And points.

Alex runs to join him. She gazes at the scene before us, entranced.

I can see why too. It’s a vision from a movie: A waterfall cascades down a sheer cliff face, into a circular lake so blue I’d swear I can see the bottom. Actually, it’s not blue—it’s turquoise. And as the spray from the waterfall catches the afternoon sun and sparkles like jewels, I know it’s the most astonishing place I’ve ever been.

Alex doesn’t speak, but she and Fran lean against each other, heads touching. Fran is smiling too; not a big smile, but enough that I know she’s content.
Whatever else has been said today, we’re at peace right now, all four of us. And in spite of the throbbing in my legs, I’m glad I got to see this.

“I could read from the guidebook,” says Alex.

“Or you could just stay absolutely still and quiet,” replies Fran.

Alex nods. “Yeah. Maybe I’ll do that.”

“And in that moment he realized the silence was not around him, but inside him,” says Matt, reciting a line from
Hallelujah
. “And he thought, ‘Whoa. That’s actually pretty cool.’”

I glance at Matt, but he won’t meet my eyes. I can’t believe he just quoted me perfectly.

“What on earth are you talking about?” asks Alex.

“Just being reflective,” he says.

I can’t tell how far down the lake is, but it has to be the clearest water I’ve ever seen. Compared to the Mississippi back home in St. Louis, it’s glassy. Then again, everything looks clean compared to the Mississippi.

“I have to go down,” says Fran.

“To the water?” I ask. “How? There’s no path.”

“Sure there is.” She and Alex pull apart, and Fran walks on a little way. Then she points. “See, there’s a path right here. Easy.”

I’m sure we’re not supposed to go down there,
but Matt and Alex have decided this is a kissing moment, and I’m not hanging around for that. So I traipse along behind Fran, feet slipping, hands grasping for support. In the back of my mind is the nagging thought that I’m supposed to be on a
book tour,
for Pete’s sake. But when I glance up and take in the scene before me, I forget about everything but the pure and awesome beauty of the sky and rocks and water.

Fran sprints the final yards and kneels beside the lake, cupping water and letting it slip through her fingers. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she says.

Neither have I. The world has been stilled here. The waterfall sounds like a parent hushing a child, and the other sounds merge together harmoniously. The sun feels reassuringly warm against my back.

I close my eyes and lose track of time. For weeks now, I’ve been preparing for the release of
Hallelujah,
and the TV interview with Pastor Mike, and the tour. My entire life has revolved around this book. Maybe it is the job of every Christian to spread God’s word—to reach out to others—but no one warned me how exhausting it would be; or how it would feel to lose faith in my own words. I haven’t slept well, eaten well, even
thought
well. I haven’t felt inspired.

But now, as I stand here in my own paradise, I feel
the tension melting away. Even Fran is silent. I open my eyes to see what she’s doing.

She’s sitting on a rock, removing her shoes and socks.

“What are you doing?” I ask drowsily.

“I’m going to swim behind the falls.”

Behind her, the sound of the movie-set waterfall seems to shift: no longer a lullaby, but a roar of warning. It pulls me back to the present. “That’s crazy.”