Lucky Strike. Nancy Zafris
“But you’re so young, forgive me for intruding.”
“Well, sometimes fate doesn’t take that into account.”
“I don’t imagine.” Paul Morrison checked behind him, nodded toward Joe, who had not moved a hair, then put his hands on his hips. His glance caught Beth a fraction before she had removed her stare from the Indian. She was hoping he hadn’t caught her, but she knew he had.
All her attention had been on Joe. She couldn’t help it. After all her books, he was the first Indian she’d seen in person, except for the ones posing by their resplendent colorful tepees next to trading-post luncheonettes and filling stations. He was a Navajo, too. She liked Navajos. She looked at Joe and believed he was standing there listening to the things the white man couldn’t hear.
“Little girl, did you know Ohio is Indian for Good morning?” Paul Morrison asked her. “Joe knows all right. He knows you came in from Ohio.”
Her mother’s eyebrows rose.
Paul Morrison nodded toward the Rambler. “The license plates. You’re pretty far from home.”
Beth still couldn’t pry her eyes off Joe. She knew he was keeping track of her even though his gaze was off to the side. Despite the heat, he wore a long-sleeved shirt—a red shirt, although the actual colors varied from orange to clay to something almost yellowish. In the end everything red had been sunned out of it, yet it remained a red shirt. Why was it still red? Exactly. Read her next book report to find out. She’d been wanting more than anything to add some philosophy to her reports.
“So you’re here alone. You have children. Two of them.” Paul Morrison filled in the bits of information as her mother failed to. “A boy and a girl.” He took a preparatory breath. Instead of speaking, his face went through a variety of expressions. He winced, then nodded with his eyes opening wide. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen this, too.”
Her mother stood calmly. They had probably guessed already she was stubborn.
“That mother and her three boys, last year? Ralph, remember? You were the one found them.”
“Jonas,” his partner corrected.
“Jonas found them? How come you’re the one with all the nightmares?” They both chuckled. “They were a little farther up here.” His hand flagged toward a direction.
Her mother didn’t respond.
“We warned them just like we’re doing you. Didn’t listen to us. They died.”
“Gotta correct you, Paul. The oldest boy lived, I believe.”
“You’re right. Thank you, Ralph. Of course what good is his life now, his whole family gone, an orphan in one of those orphanages.”
“Well, at least you warned them,” her mother said. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“Okay. Well, you’ve caught on to me pretty quick.” He turned to his partner for acknowledgment.
“I guess she does get you,” Ralph Graver agreed. “But it’s a little lie that illustrates a bigger truth.”
“That’s well put, Ralph.”
“Thank you.”
“But I have seen all kinda things happen, ma’am. Maybe this particular thing didn’t happen quite this way—”
“Or not at all,” her mother said.
“—Or not at all. Maybe not at all, but the idea see is true. It could happen, especially the way things are going and getting out of control. Which I’m sure you have noticed. It’s dangerous see in all kinda ways and that part’s true.” Paul Morrison turned serious. “And people do get into trouble. There’s been a murder or two.”
“That’s true,” Ralph Graver said. “That’s the God’s truth.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Paul Morrison said.
Her mother shrugged. It was settled.
“But it’s mainly the elements that will get you. You’re not the type to be out here. I hate to speak so boldly but there it is. You’re a lovely lady, you’re refined and high class, and I don’t mean to ridicule you when I say that you’re a faucet turner. And I mean, those high heels look nice—well, they do look nice, don’t they, Ralph?”
Even Beth knew that her mother was supposed to ask what a faucet turner was, but she didn’t.
“Very nice,” Ralph said.
“Now where’s your water, may I ask? Can’t live without water. You learn that stuff pretty quick. Don’t know where Harry’s been taking his lessons.”
“We found a waterhole,” her mother said.
Paul Morrison grimaced. “That’ll do you in an emergency, but you don’t want all that alkaline on a daily basis.”
Beth looked at Charlie. He had taken note. Alkaline.
“We’ll get it from town and tote it in,” her mother said.
“Believe me, with that plan you will die. I’m being serious now. The board springs aren’t looking too good on your Rambler. Can’t believe you made it this far without a truck. Well, it took its toll. I’d say you have one trip left in that wagon and I would use it for a fast exit. What would you say, Ralph?”
“I’d say the same thing.”
“Eventually,” her mother said.
“Eventually what?”
“Eventually we’ll make a fast exit. But not right away.”
Paul Morrison glanced back at his partner. Though a slight shake of the head was all he displayed, Beth could read all kinds of topsy-turvy activity going on inside him. He turned back to her mother with an I-give-up shake of the head. “We’ll set you up with a little water buffalo—a little tank, see, we’ll fill it with water for you. Can’t promise about no murder. Men might kill themselves fighting over you.”
“Thank you for the water.”
The men went back to the road. Beth followed Charlie out there and they watched Paul Morrison clamber into Harry’s truck and gun it off the road. They picked up the supplies Harry had strewn about and loaded them back into Harry’s truck. Paul Morrison asked Joe to find a paper bag and tape it over the Rambler’s carburetor. “Dust,” he explained to Charlie. “How old are you, young man?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve. You sure? You don’t look twelve.”
“I’m twelve,” Charlie said.
“Did your mom tell you to say twelve?”
“No. I told myself.”
“You told yourself to say twelve which means you told yourself to say this number instead of the correct number, which means how old are you really?”
“He was born in 1942, that’s why he’s twelve,” Beth said.
“And how old are you?” the man asked.
“Ten,” Beth said.
“Well, okay, you could pass for ten. Your mom making you do this?”
“No.”
“This is what you want to do?”
“Yes.”
“What about school?”
“We have permission,” Charlie said.
“Permission from what?”
“Permission from the school.”
Paul Morrison let out an exasperated sigh. He went