The rhythm of the road still beat in my head.Gone for good. Gone for good.
Please, Mina. Please, not gone for good.
——————
The roadster broke down just outside Salt Lake City.
With the help of a couple of mugs, I pushed the auto to a repair shop and waited while a mechanic as old as Methuselah checked out the engine.
“You burned up the belts, and your gearbox is shot,” he said, wiping his gnarled hands on a rag covered in oil.
“What’ll it take to fix it?” I had a couple of twenties and some change in my pocket. I’d been hoping it was enough to get me to South Dakota.
He rubbed his whiskery chin. “Pretty fancy auto, this is. Have to order the parts from the catalogue.” He spit into a bucket in the corner. “Two weeks to come in, give or take. Not sure, but you’re looking at fifty dollars up front, then the rest when you pick it up.”
Fifty dollars. Two weeks.
I sat at a diner in Ogden, a thousand miles away from Mina and no way forward that I could see. I took out Mina’s picture, creased and curling at the edges, and laid it beside the cold cup of coffee I wished was tequila, but I’d given that up. It hadn’t done any good and had done plenty of harm.
An old-timer on the stool next to me leaned over. “That your girl?”
I wished I could say yes. “Maybe. If I can find her.” Then I told him about Mina and South Dakota. Not about the baby, no sir. Just about the auto sitting in the repair shop across the road. I’d given the mechanic most of the money I had and promised I’d be back with the rest. That left me with enough change in my pocket to pay for my coffee and leave a tip for the waitress.
The old cowboy eyed my pinstripe suit and two-toned wingtips. “You know how to work?”
I had a spark of hope and sat up straighter. “Yes, sir.”
“Humph.” He didn’t look like he believed me. “Can you ride?”
I nodded, figuring he meant a horse. I was Dusty Clark’s son, after all.
He pursed his lips. “It’s hard work. Pay’s a dollar a day, three squares, and a bunk.”
I stuck out my hand. It was a better offer than I’d get anywhere else. “I won’t let you down.”
They called him Ostringer. I never got his first name and maybe he didn’t have one. He was a foreman on a big spread about ten miles out of Ogden. And when he said hard work, he wasn’t kidding around. He gave me an old pair of dungarees, some worn boots, and a place in the bunkhouse with twenty other cowhands.
The other hands called me Clark. Nobody knew my father wasa film star and my mother wasn’t his wife. I don’t think they would have cared anyway. They knew I was just passing through, on my way to find a pretty girl. They gave me a hard time about that, but on the whole, they worked hard and took a man for what he was worth and nothing more.
Every day, I got up with the sun and did whatever Ostringer told me. Repaired fences and chopped firewood, mostly. Spent a few days patching a leak in the bunkhouse and a week hunting a pack of wolves that had been attacking the herd. I was glad for the riding I’d done with Dusty, and that he’d taught me how to handle a rifle. Every night I fell into bed and my last thought—before I fell into a dead sleep—was of Mina.
March turned into April, the grass greened, and by the time I saved up enough lettuce to get the roadster back and fill it with gas, it was almost May. I thanked Ostringer for taking me on; he said, “Don’t mention it.”
I got back on the road and my doubts hit hard. What if Mina hadn’t gone to this place in South Dakota? And that wasn’t even the thought that made my gut churn the most as I pulled back on the road stretching east. What if I found her, and she didn’t want me?
MINA
That day I came back to Odessa—it seems like a long time ago now—well, it wasn’t such a sweet reunion with Penny.
Papa, cold and wet with me wearing his coat, had telephoned Penny from the barber shop. She showed up on the tractor, covered with snow and hopping mad.
When we got home, Papa had brought me into the house and stoked the fire.
And then—all at once before I lost my nerve—I told themabout the baby. Papa didn’t say much, just took my hand and held it tight.I love you, my girl. Always. No matter what.I guess he really meant it.
As for Penny, well, I don’t blame my sister for what she said. She’d seen the newspapers, just like everybody else. She called me a thief, a tramp, and plenty worse than that. She told me I should get what I deserved. She was right about it all. I’m not proud of what I did, and I sure as sugar don’t expect her to forgive me. She’s barely spoken to me since. And why should I expect more?
I don’t deserve it, do I?
