Page 65 of Hauling Ashe

At Barstow, I-40 ends, and we bypass I-15 to stick to the original route. Tucker doesn’t seem in any hurry to reach his final stop, although we get closer by the mile. He told me he told his daughter to go ahead without him. We haven’t discussed how he’s getting to Napa. We haven’t talked about what I’m doing next. We’re avoiding the obvious. We’ll be reaching his original destination soon and then we part ways.

When we stop at Elmer’s Bottle Tree Garden, I try to muster the emotion I had at the red rocking chair back in Missouri. These old glass bottles are being repurposed into art and it’s another example of taking something no longer useful—empty soda and beer bottles—and making something beautiful with them. Of course, the glass is not all clear soda and brown beer containers, but an array of colorful greens and blues. The designs give me an idea for a garden art project. Pam designed programs at Mae’s Flowers where we offer a garden project class once a month. Snapping a few pictures, I send them to her as a suggestion of something we could offer in the future.

“I should have collected more things along the way,” I say for no reason. I’m not a collector by nature. I’m more the type that if something no longer has a use, I let it go. I don’t like clutter. But I still should have purchased more souvenirs or tokens to remind me of where I’ve been. Absentmindedly, I reach for the silver cuff bracelet I bought back in New Mexico.

“You’ll have all the memories,” Tucker says beside me. We’ve grown quieter since my little side-seat show. I don’t know what came over me. He was stroking my leg and I was imagining us last night on the hood of the car. While we didn’t get to make love properly under the stars, I wanted him to take me under all this sunshine. The heat here is a serious deterrent, though. Still, I couldn’t shut down my body. I’ve never acted the way I behaved. Touching myself. Climbing over him. Desperate to give him road head. The behavior was so unlike me, like so many things have been on this trip.

“Memories can fade.”

“That’s rather pessimistic of you,” he huffs, but he’s the master of letting memories slip away. He’s going to forget everything. He’s going to forget me.

I shrug but he grips my shoulders, squeezing at the tops of my arms.

“Stop it,” he demands.

Stop what? I want to snap. Stop thinking about us ending? Stop thinking about him? Stop my heart from feeling? I can’t turn it off like a switch. I’m not wired that way.

“I’m not doing anything.” I sound like a petulant child.

“That’s exactly it. You’re acting weird. We have hours to go, and I don’t know where your enthusiasm went.” His silvery eyes search mine and I’m tempted to shrug once again but I can’t with his hands on my shoulders.

Funny how days ago, it was days to go. Now, we are down to hours. “I’m just getting weary of the car.” We’ve been confined for six days on what was intended to be a fourteen-day trip. I didn’t exactly volunteer to shorten my plans, but I still did it, if not begrudgingly at first. Originally, I’d been wanting to slow the pace, take my time. With Tucker’s need to get to California, everything has been a rush, including this relationship we’ve developed.

“Do you want to stop visiting attractions? Or take a break?” Tucker’s voice lowers, his hands slipping down my arms and circling my wrists. This touch is the first he’s given me since the car sex-show. He hasn’t kissed me since this morning. I don’t know why any of it bothers me or why I’m even thinking of such a thing.

“No, we should just keep going. We’re almost to the end.” We need to finish this trip.

Tucker’s hands slip away. Staring down at me, he stands taller and slides his hands into his pockets. He’s wearing the shorts he bought only yesterday with another tight-fitting T-shirt. This one is white and his leather strap, normally tucked inside his shirt, hangs outside the collar today. He told me the medal is St. Benedict. Tucker admitted he wasn’t particularly religious, but the medallion belonged to his grandfather. The memento was intended to remind him there are things he can change and things he can’t, and he needs to accept the difference.

“Mae.” Tucker says my name, pausing as if he’s about to say more. His head turns to the left, and he squints in the sunshine. Slowly, he shakes his head once and turns back to me. “You’re right. Maybe we should just keep moving.”

He spins and stalks toward the car while I take my time, giving the glass bottle art one more glance. I take another mental photograph hoping the memories won’t fade but shine as brightly as these containers reflecting under the sun.

Near Victorville, we’re back on the interstate, which covers the original route, and we weave our way south to San Bernardino. The landscape changes once more and we let the road trip soundtrack be our tour guide. We could cheat and cut off San Bernardino but route 66 does lead in that direction before taking a sharp turn west and heading straight on to the ocean.

I don’t want to cheat, and I say as much to Tucker. “Let’s just keep to the route as best we can.”

We near a Wigwam Motel, similar to one we passed in Arizona, and notice a giant orange stand that looks old and authentic. Next, we see a sign for the original McDonald’s.

“That is not the original,” Tucker defensively argues. “I’m a Chicago man, and it started near there.” He goes on to give me the history of Ray Croc, and how the original hamburger stand was in a suburb of the big city. McDonald’s headquarters is actually outside Chicago as well. It’s more information than I ever thought I’d learn about the world-famous fast-food franchise and might be one of the first times our entire trip that Tucker is full of random facts. His enthusiasm for their history, along with the reality of this thought combine, and I start to chuckle, breaking some of the tension I’ve held since morning.

When I smile at Tucker, he smiles back.

“There she finally is,” he whispers, reaching out to cup the back of my neck while he drives. He squeezes and keeps his hand on my skin as long as he can before he needs both hands on the wheel again.

“I met Lawson Colt in a small dive bar outside L.A.,” Tucker says, surprising me. “I was newly eighteen, full of piss, and ready to live my life. I didn’t want to be under the confines of Ashford’s. I didn’t want to go to business school. I wanted to play music. My dad was so angry.”

Tucker pauses and I hold my breath. He hasn’t shared any of this with me before.

“Lawson’s cousin was also in the band. His name is Denton Chance, and he understood my anger. His father had been some small-town mayor and he didn’t want his son playing music either. Fortunately for Denton, he was at least the athlete his father wanted.”

“Denton Chance?” I question. “My sister in-law is named Dolores Chance. Her brother’s name is Denton.”

Tucker’s head turns sharply toward me. His voice is full amazement. “Get out.”

“I’m serious. She’s from a small town in Georgia named Blue Ridge.”

Tucker’s mouth falls open and his eyes shift to briefly glance at me. “No fucking way,” he mutters under his breath. Vaguely I remember that Denton was once in a band, and I don’t know why I never put it together. Tucker and Denton had been in Colt45 together.