The miles pass easily. It is hot and clear and arid, but
not uncomfortable with the windows open. The advantage of traveling in fall. Route 66 is the frontage road alongside the freeway, uncrowded as we pass through towns with names like Lela and Alanreed. You could call these places sleepy, although
comatose
may be more like it. A sign off the freeway:
RATTLESNAKES EXIT NOW
Yet at the Reptile Ranch, there is nothing left but rubble. I almost want to have John pull over for a closer look, but instead I direct us onto I-40 to avoid the dirt road section of 66 coming up, what’s left of the Jericho Gap. Anyway, it feels so good to be moving that I wouldn’t want to ruin our momentum by lollygagging. I also don’t want to do anything that will make John any different than he is right now. He is downright chatty.
“Ella, remember when we went to Colorado that time? Where were we when we woke up and there were all those sheep all around us? God, that was something.”
I turn to John, amazed. He hasn’t recalled anything like this for a long time, but I’m not complaining. “It was Vail,” I say. “When we went out west in ’69.”
“That’s right!” he says, nodding with his whole body.
“That was so strange,” I say. “We woke up early and I happened to look outside. The sun had just come up and all these sheep just appeared.”
John pushes back his glasses with his index finger and
nods again. “That man was herding them through the campground. We were right next to that hillside and they stopped and grazed all around us. I don’t know how he managed all of them.”
“Did he have a dog?” I can’t believe that I’m asking John about something that happened decades ago.
“I don’t think so.” As he speaks, John stares at the road before us as if he’s watching the scene unfold right there. “I remember how that felt. It was like time slowed down when those sheep surrounded us. Everything got so still while they grazed. They weren’t even that noisy. I remember feeling like we were trapped in the camper. But it was all right. We were just surrounded by sheep.”
“That’s what I like about vacation,” I say, gazing out my window at the brownish puffs of undergrowth dotting the roadside.
“Sheep?”
“Everything slows down. You have all these experiences in a short period. You can’t remember what day it is. Time slows like a dream.”
John looks stymied by what I just said. Or maybe he didn’t even hear me. Just as well, since I’ve probably just described his usual state of mind.
“Remember how scared Kevin was?” he says. “Poor kid had never seen so many sheep. Not even at the State Fair. I had to tell him that everything was okay. That sheep are nice and you don’t have to be afraid of them.”
“Good grief, John.” He’s giving me details that even I forgot
and I’ve got a memory to match my girth. I put my hand on his forearm, run my nails through the snowy hair.
“What?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
There are no perfect moments. Not anymore. I realize this now because this day, this brief moment where I have my John back, is the same time that I suddenly feel pressure in my body, an intense, gut-crushing discomfort like no discomfort I’ve experienced so far. I remove my quivering hand from John’s arm, glad that I didn’t sink my nails into the flesh when the first wave hit. I fumble around in my purse for my little blue pills. I look and look, my purse is full of pill bottles, just not the right ones. I find tubes of lipstick, wads of Kleenex, half-sticks of Doublemint, and John’s gun (so very heavy, but I am scared to leave it anywhere else), but no little blue pills. Finally, I locate the vial. Hands shaking like a dope fiend, I wash two down with the emergency water. It’s going to be a while, I know, before I feel any relief. I need distraction.
“Talk to me, John,” I say, wincing, but trying to keep my voice as normal as possible.
“About what?”
“Anything. I don’t care. Tell me what you remember.”
“About what?”
“About us. About our marriage. Tell me something.”
John looks at me, confused at first, as if on the verge of forgetting the question. Then he blurts it out: “How you looked when we got married. I remember how red your cheeks were. You weren’t wearing any rouge, but your cheeks were so red.
I kept thinking you were running a fever. I remember kissing you on the steps of St. Cecilia, touching your face and feeling how warm it was and thinking that I wanted to feel that warmth against my face.”
I wince. “I remember you doing that. Your face was nice and cool. I was so keyed up that day. I just wanted us to be married.”
John laughs and smiles at me. I hope my grimace passes for a smile.
“Tell me something else you remember, John. Hurry.”
“I remember after Kevin was born. I went home after you were all settled in for the night and the baby was okay. Cindy was staying with your sister and I was alone at home and I couldn’t stop crying.”
“Why were you crying, John?”
“I don’t remember. I think I was happy. I remember being ashamed for crying so much.”
“There was nothing to be ashamed of, sweetie.”
“I guess not.”
I close my fingers around the armrests of my captain’s chair and ride it out. “You used to get so mad at Kevin for crying all the time.”
“I didn’t want him to get picked on at school for being a crybaby.”
“He still was anyway.” I can’t laugh or smile right now, but I want to.
John doesn’t say anything. A car passes us on the left spew
ing exhaust fumes. The smell of the fumes makes me nauseous. I almost think I’m going to upchuck, but I roll down my window farther and it helps.
“What do you remember about vacation, John?”
He thinks for a moment. A ragged jolt of discomfort shoots through me.
“John.”
“Fire. The fires we would have. The campfire smell on my clothes the next morning when I would get up and put the same sweatshirt on. I liked that smell. By the end of the day driving, it would be gone and I wanted it back.”
“Maybe we’ll have a fire tonight.”
“All right.”
We pass the town of Groom and I can see the “Leaning Tower of Texas,” as the guidebooks call it. It’s a water tower lurched way over to one side.
“Are you all right?” John asks.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Another car rockets past us.
“What’s his hurry?” says John, irked. This has happened a lot this trip, people ticked off at the oldsters driving so slowly, but this is the first time John has noticed. I worry that we did the same thing when we were young, our impatient travels, going too fast to get somewhere, then hurrying back home. I think of the map in our basement with the tape lines webbed over the country, all those vacations, how fast this all went by. I think of the Joads trudging through the Jericho Gap, their truck being sucked into the earth. Then a quicksilver warmth starts spreading through my bones. My head loosens on my
shoulders, and I can breathe again. Outside my window, I see a grain elevator in a field, its silos like fingers clutching at the sky.
I have achieved comfort.
“Howdy, partners!” says Jeanette, our pretty, perky waitress, all gussied up like a cowgirl, still young enough not to be completely beaten down by grueling waitress work. “Welcome to the Big Texan Steak Ranch!”
“Howdy, little lady,” John says back, tipping his golf hat to her. He’s still doing well and it’s brought out the flirt in him.
Jeanette laughs much too long and much too loudly at this. “Well, aren’t you two just the cutest thing?”
I nod and smile. Jeanette has no idea that the cute little old lady she’s waiting on is high as a kite on the dope. Maybe I took a little too much. My head is humming. My body feels liquid and electric. The discomfort is gone, but so am I. I’m lucky I made it to the table.
The Big Texan Steak Ranch is a gaudy place that looked like great fun from the outside—a giant cowboy and his giant cow, right next to a giant ranch house. John was so excited when he saw the place, I couldn’t disappoint him. (In case you haven’t noticed, I am a sucker for the jumbo tourist attractions. I still get a thrill passing the enormous Ferris wheel–sized Uniroyal tire on I-94 back in Detroit. And I used to love that colossal Paul Bunyan we had up north in Michigan. I have a photo somewhere of Cindy and myself when she
was just five or six, standing next to Babe the Blue Ox. We are looking up and waving at John taking the picture from high above us in Paul Bunyan’s head.) Anyway, now that we’re inside the Big Texan, it looks more like an Old West bordello than a ranch house. On top of that, a big hunk of meat doesn’t exactly sound appetizing to me right now.
“All right, you cuties. What’ll y’all have?” squeaks Jeanette.
“I want a hamburger,” says John. No newsflash there.
“Is the eight-ounce chopped steak all right?”
I nod at Jeanette. “That’s fine for him. Well done, please.”
“You also get a salad and two sides, sir.”
John looks a tad bewildered, so I perk up, though I’m loopy myself. “Uhhh, Thousand Island dressing?” I say, stalling, as I scan the giant, crazy, cartoon-filled menu. “Mac and cheese. Fried okra.”
“Okay. And you, ma’am?” asks Jeanette, head cocked.
“I’ll just have a glass of sweet tea, please.”
Jeanette pouts theatrically at my answer. “You sure? Don’t forget we’ve got our special Big Texan seventy-two-ounce steak. Four and a half pounds! It’s free if you can eat it all in an hour!”
I stare at her blankly. “Um. No, I don’t think I’ll be having that today, thanks.”
“We’ve had a sixty-nine-year-old meemaw eat one,” Jeanette proclaims proudly.
“Is that so?” I say. “Well, this meemaw just wants sweet tea.”
“Okay! I’ll be right back with your bread and butter!” Jeanette leaves, and I am relieved. It’s a strain being around all that enthusiasm.
John looks at me, concerned. “Are you all right, honey?”
“I’m fine. Just a little queasy.”
“Are you sick?”
This might be an appropriate time to mention that John doesn’t really know that I’m ill. I mean, he knows that the kids take me to the doctor. (We tape notes all through the house—
MOM AT DOCTOR. BACK IN TWO HOURS
!—so he doesn’t panic when he realizes I’m not there.) But he doesn’t know why. He wouldn’t be able to retain the information, anyway. When Cindy told John about her divorce, he kept forgetting. Every time he saw her, he’d ask, “Where’s Hank?”
She’d say something like, “I don’t know, Dad. We’re divorced. He just comes by to pick up the kids.”
“Divorced!” John would say. “What? You’re not divorced.”
“Yes, I am, Dad.”
“Bullshit! Divorced? Doesn’t anyone tell me anything around here?”
“I did tell you, Dad, but you forgot.”
“Like hell I forgot.”
And so on. Every time she told him, it was like he was hearing the bad news for the first time. After this happened five or six times, we decided that John wasn’t going to remember and that it was best to act like nothing had happened. We didn’t want to keep upsetting him.
By the time John’s food arrives today, he’s no longer worrying about how I feel or anything else. He eats like he’s going to the electric chair.
John still seems to be doing well, so I see no harm in us driving through Amarillo, especially since, according to my books, it’s supposed to have the feel of the old road. We take Business Loop 40, which is old 66, and follow it onto Amarillo Boulevard. Traffic is heavy and while I would usually be nervous about this, I am still abnormally relaxed from the little blue pills. I do see a few old motor lodges—the Apache Motel and such, but the city seems dusty and run-down. When we get around Sixth Street, there is a little area with shops and restaurants. John slows down the van.
“There’s some gift shops. Want to stop and take a look?”
I smile at my husband. He is being an absolute dear today.
“No, I think I’m fine, John. Thanks anyway.”
He’s right, though. There are some cute shops in this area. Ten or fifteen years ago, I would have wanted to stop and look around. Even goofy with discomfort medication, it crosses my mind today. Then I realize that this would be silly.
At one time, that was one of my favorite parts of vacation, the bringing back of things. My personal weakness was pottery. No matter where we traveled, I always came back with a little something—Indian pots from Wyoming and Montana, beautiful glazed vases from Pigeon Forge, Mexican bowls from the South
west. All beautiful, and most of it still packed away in boxes in our basement. A home, after all, only has so much room. I simply had to stop buying things. In later trips, there might have been a trinket or two brought back for the grandchildren, but now we are done with that. I think about all those boxes in the basement. The kids are going to have quite a job ahead of them.
Outside of Amarillo, we pick up I-40 again and I’m feeling a bit more clearheaded. Before long we hit Exit 62 and I direct John off the freeway. I rummage around in one of the storage compartments behind us until I find our old binoculars.
“What are you looking for?” asks John, when he sees what I have in my hands.
“I want to get a look at that Cadillac Ranch,” I say, gently unwinding the leather strap that’s wound around the glasses, but it’s so cracked that it falls apart in my lap. Peeved, I toss the pieces of strap in the litter bag.
“What’s that?”
I pick up my guidebook and read. “Says here that it’s some sort of art project by an eccentric helium tycoon. It’s a bunch of old cars that he buried in the dirt.”
John frowns. “Why the hell did he do that?”
I scan the side of the road with the binoculars. “I told you, it’s an art project.”
“Sounds like a waste of good cars to me.” He takes his hat off and adjusts the headband, puts it back on.
“They’re old ones from the forties and fifties.”
“Oh.” He grunts. I can tell John doesn’t approve.
I see something far off the road in the middle of a big field, like it says in my book. Way too far for either of us to walk.
“Slow down, John. Would you? I want to take a look.”