Frank put his fork down.
Oh dear,
said Mrs. Budge,
that poor boy,
and Amelia wrinkled her nose and said,
What’s he even talking about?
Tornadoes,
Karena said to her chicken dinner. She was glaring at her plate, totally mortified.
He’s talking about tornadoes,
and by then they could hear Charles yelling to somebody outside,
It’s coming! Tornado—yeah, big one! You’d better get in there and take cover!
Karena,
said Frank, and Karena looked up.
Let’s go,
Frank said, and Karena threw her napkin down and grabbed her purse, and she and Frank walked through the dining room to the bar. Which was mostly empty, because if the diners hadn’t wanted to interrupt the chicken drummie dinners they’d paid good money for, the drinkers wanted to see the action.
Outside Charles was already at the end of the lot climbing into Frank’s Mercedes—he must have hooked the keys right out of their dad’s pocket, Karena thought, how oblivious could Frank be?—and Charles was right about one thing, there was a gust front moving in, driving dust and corn chaff through the air. In the southwest, just over the border in Iowa, a cloud bank towered, the sun glaring through a keyhole in it. The wind was preventing any would-be heroes from going after Charles into the lot. They stood on the Starlite’s steps or just below them, screwing their faces up against the grit.
Charles,
Siri called. This was before she had cut her hair, and it blew straight out to the side. She cupped her hands around her mouth to be heard.
Charles Oskar Hallingdahl, you come back here right now. I mean it!
In answer Charles gunned the engine of Frank’s Mercedes. He didn’t have much experience in stealing cars yet and he banged a dent in the door of Mrs. Russert’s Buick as he backed out of the space.
Oh, crap,
laughed two of the guys watching, and one of them yelled,
Floor it! Floor it, Charles!
Siri turned on them.
You shut your mouths,
she said,
you ought to be ashamed,
and then she looked up at Frank and Karena on the top step.
Frank,
she said, and Frank put his hand on Karena’s shoulder.
Go get him, Karena,
he said.
You’re the only one who can.
And Karena knew this to be true, from the nights she was the only one who could sing Charles to sleep, the only one who could coax him off the roof, keep him from climbing the water tower, make him stop chanting that song, stop bouncing that ball, stop kicking that door. She ran out into the lot, tasting the dirt in the air, positioning herself between the rows of cars where Charles would either have to stop or run her down on his way out.
Charles,
she shouted, trying in vain to tuck her hair behind her ears—it was whipping all over the place. She held out one hand like a crossing guard.
Charles, stop!
Luckily, he remembered which was the brake and which was the accelerator, and the Mercedes lurched to a halt with its bumper six inches from Karena’s knees.
Wait for me,
Karena yelled, and ran around to the passenger’s side. Charles popped the lock up.
Hey, sistah,
he said, as if they were just hanging out in their yard.
Want a ride?
Sure,
said Karena, climbing in.
Except let’s not go very far, okay? Let’s just drive to the end of the lot and you can show me the storm.
Okay,
said Charles, somehow piloting the big car around the others without dinging too many bumpers and plunging onto the grass bordering the lot, where he threw on the brakes. Karena caught herself on the dashboard.
Okay,
said Charles,
okay, okay, see, K? There it is. There’s the anvil, and there’s the overshooting top, and there’s the wall cloud, see it? See? And holy shit,
he yelled, grabbing his hair,
there it is, dropping right in front of us, oh my God, I don’t believe it! Check it out, K! Check out that funnel!
Karena looked at the cloud bank, then back at her brother, and goose bumps popped out on her arms. He believed it. He really thought it was there.
Charles,
she said.
There’s no funnel, Charles. It’s just a storm.
Charles looked at her and smiled, his face full of love and pity.
Oh, K,
he said,
don’t you see it?
and then he opened the door and took off running. He sprinted down to the highway first, causing a sedan to honk and swerve, then hooked right into the Elmers’ feed corn and disappeared. In the end, it took Sheriff Cushing and two deputies five hours to find him, all the way out on the Swenson farm having tea and coffee cake with that scary old German lady, Mrs. Swenson, and bring him back.
Now Karena sits up and rubs her eyes. She is thinking how amazing it is that as mythic as the story quickly grew—
Did you hear what that crazy Hallingdahl kid did? Tried to steal his own dad’s car! Ran almost all the way to Iowa!—
nobody ever figured out that Charles was manic-depressive, as the diagnosis was called then. They just thought he was a joker, a cutup, a wild card. They were distracted, when Charles came home, by his dislocated shoulder—the Hallingdahls never did learn how he’d done that—and his numerous infected scratches from barbed wire. And Frank and Siri and Karena worked very hard to keep the diagnosis a secret.
We don’t talk about this,
Frank said, as they drove home from the Mayo, leaving Charles behind in a little room, sedated. And, as a rule, Karena rarely has.
She hears a scuffle at the door that means one of her roommates is inserting the key, and by the time Fern and Alicia tumble in, laughing, Karena has mustered a smile.
“Hey,” she says. “How was dinner?”
“Brilliant,” says Fern. She holds up a Styrofoam box. “We brought you back some chicken-fried steak, in case you’d want food before the party.”
“What party?”
“Marla’s fiftieth birthday,” says Alicia. “She specially requested we bring you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Karena. “It sounds great, but I really should . . .”
“Come on,” says Fern. “All work and no play makes a dull chaser chick.”
“I wouldn’t mind an early night either,” Alicia says diplomatically. “I’ll go over with you just to say hi, if you want.”
Karena stands up. She’s tired of sitting around feeling bad. And the calls can wait a little while. If Charles has settled into the vicinity for the night, what difference will an hour make? And if he hasn’t, there’s nothing she can do about it but try again tomorrow.
“Okay,” she says. “You twisted my arm. One drink.”
They cross the parking lot under a high, soft purple sky, bats dive-bombing the Sandhills’ pines. Fern knocks on the door to Room 117 and it flies open.
“Welcome!” Marla says. “So glad you could make it.” In addition to her cat’s-eye glasses, she is wearing sequined red sneakers, a T-shirt that says “Don’t MAKE me get the Flying Monkeys!” and a black trucker cap with flames on it.
“Wow,” says Karena. “That’s some headgear.”
“Thank you,” Marla says modestly. “I just thought it said fifty better than anything else.”
The three women file in, wishing Marla a happy birthday. Pete, her husband, turns from the impromptu bar on the dresser. “Ladies,” he says. “Drink? We’ve got this”—he holds out a bottle of Jägermeister—“or Chuck Norris.”
“What’s Chuck Norris?” Karena asks.
“Vodka and Red Bull,” says Pete, swirling a handle of vicious red liquid. “Smooth by night, but it kicks your ass in the morning.”
“Oh my,” says Alicia, who is, Karena remembers, a fairly devout Christian.
“Yes please,” says Fern.
“Karena?”
“Sure,” says Karena. “It’s research.”
She accepts a keg cup full of Chuck Norris, thanks Pete, and looks around. Everyone who’s anyone is here—almost. Dennis is holding court in the corner, fishing hat bobbing animatedly, telling war stories. “. . . so I jumped out and scooped some of ’em up,” he is saying, “put ’em in the cooler, and that night we had hail cubes in our drinks. HAH!” Alistair is intently watching
Twister
on a mini DVD, Scout sitting beside him. Dan Mitchell stops by to wish Marla an unsmiling happy birthday from the doorway. But where is Kevin? Karena has expected to see him here, freshly showered and smelling of Old Spice, mingling like a good guide should. She’s a little annoyed by how disappointed she is that he’s not. She bumps cups with Alicia, who sips her Chuck Norris and hastily sets it on the floor. Karena grins and takes a swallow of her own. The drink tastes like children’s cherry cough syrup and goes down with alarming ease.
Scout nudges Karena with a foot. “Hey, Mystery Lady,” she says. “Come sit by me,” and she pats the bedspread next to her.
“Okay,” says Karena, settling in. “Why am I the Mystery Lady?”
“Because we don’t know anything about you,” says Scout. “You’re always behind us in the caboose.” She smiles. “How’s it going back there, anyway?”
“Very well, thank you,” says Karena, “especially now that I’ve stopped freaking out and driving away.”
“Well, you’ve got a good guide now,” says Scout. She winks. “I’d say a smitten one too.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Karena says. “He has to be nice to me. That’s his job. . . . And how about you?” she asks. “Are you still liking the tour now that nobody’s a stranger anymore? Or is the honeymoon over?”
“Yup,” Scout says, “let me off, I’m done.” She laughs. With her crinkly blond bob and white smile, she reminds Karena a little of her mom, Siri. Scout has that slightly leathery look too, though hers is from being outdoors instead of marinating in smoke. Back in California, Scout is a professional equestrienne.
“Just kidding. Actually, I’m loving it,” she says. She swirls her drink, which since it’s clear is either water or straight vodka, and takes a thoughtful sip. “When I came out here I thought it was just this year’s flavor. Every year I try something I haven’t done before, like fly-fishing or dude ranching. But you know, this might be it for me. I think I might be hooked.”
“Wow, really?” says Karena. “Already? On what?”
“Oh, I like the rhythm of chasing,” Scout says. “Waking up every morning not knowing where you’re going to land that night or what’s going to happen. Going places you can’t see any other way—places that don’t even exist anywhere else, like this,” she says, and toasts the room. “And the people are so great, and then there’re the storms, of course. I know we haven’t seen a really big one yet, but that one yesterday by Ogallala—that was amazing, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” says Karena.
“I’m not religious,” says Scout, “but that storm made me think I could be. It was like . . . communion, to be that small in comparison to something but still a part of it, something so much bigger than yourself.”
“Now that is a great quote,” says Karena. “Do you mind if I use it?” She has forgotten her recorder—she has to do better—but she uses the Sandhills’ scratch pad from the nightstand. Even as Scout repeats the quote, though, Karena is thinking she’s heard or read something like it before. Where . . . And then she remembers. Charles, Charles saying,
It’s so beautiful, K, I swear it’s almost enough to make you believe in God.
“Okay, everybody,” Marla calls, and the music stops. She beckons them over to the round table. “Come here—you’ve got to see this. Birthday girl’s orders.”
“What is it?” Alicia asks, craning.
“Only the funniest video ever taken,” says Marla, “of the very best birthday, by the very best husband,” and she grabs Pete’s cheeks and gives him such a long, passionate kiss that his bald spot glows bright pink.
“Okay, Marl,” he says when she releases him, “maybe go a little easier on the firewater.”
“Whatever,” she says and twirls her hands, reeling her guests in. “Everyone ready? Hit play, honey.”
Pete does, and the screen, which shows a frozen Marla standing next to a convenience store display of hats, comes to life. Karena recognizes the place as the Chevron station they gassed up in earlier, in Chadron, after Carhenge. Marla winks at the camera.
Hi,
she announces,
I’m Marla Johannssen, and I’m on a mission to find just the right hat for my birthday.
She turns, puts on a pink cowgirl hat, shoots her fingers at the camera and says,
Peew! Peew!
Shakes her head sadly and puts it back. Chooses a mesh and foam feed cap, about which she pronounces in a Barry White voice,
Sexy.
Then spies the hat with the flames, which she pounces on and holds up and says,
Oh, this is it.
She crams it on and adjusts the brim.
What are you, honey?
prompts Pete, off camera.
The new face of fifty!
Marla says and throws her head back for a wolf howl.
Then the rack starts to tremble, and a man pops out from behind the hats. He makes a face of astonishment, throws out his hand, and shakes it at the lens as if to say No no no no no to the paparazzi, then shrinks from view. A few seconds later, he glides into the other side of the frame with a rose between his teeth. He presents it to Marla, says
Happy Birthday!,
kisses her cheek, and leans forward to grin into the camera. Then he moonwalks smoothly backward until he is off-screen.
Everyone is in stitches.
“That is hilarious,” says Alicia. “Where did he come from?”
“I don’t know,” says Marla, “but don’t you just love him?” She turns to her husband. “Are you sure you didn’t pay him?”
Pete shakes his head. “I think he came straight from the meth lab, honey.”
“No way,” says Scout. “He’s too cute for that. Did you save the rose?”
“No,” says Marla, looking sheepish. “It was chocolate. I ate it.”
“He’s a bit of all right, isn’t he,” says Fern. “I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating biscuits. Could we watch it again?”