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“You belong to a church?”
“I go at Christmas and Easter.”
“I’ll wager they know you’re there, too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t mean to be too personal a moment ago. But I need to tell you something. You have an aura. Certain people have it. I think you’re one of them.”
Her eyes filmed, and there was a visible lump in her throat when she looked back at him.
He walked out of the café into the night, the stars like a spray of white diamonds from one horizon to the other, the highway that led to Lookout Pass climbing higher and higher into the mountains, where the headlights of the great trucks driving into Idaho tunneled up into the darkness, then dipped down on the far side of the grade and seemed to disappear into a bowl of ink.
Reverend Noonen walked onto the lawn where the mother had been swinging her little girl. The swing was empty, the chains clinking slightly in the breeze. The man glanced at his wristwatch and looked back at the lighted windows of the café, inside which the young waitress was wiping off the counter, bending over it, scrubbing the rag hard on the surface where some of his spilled food had dried. He worked a toothpick between his teeth while he watched her, then heard voices from the parking lot and realized the mother and her child were moving their suitcases from a battered van into a room at the back of the motel, in an unlighted area where no other guests seemed to be staying.
The woman was struggling with a suitcase while the little girl was climbing through the side door of the van, trying to pull out a sack of groceries that had already started to split apart, her rear end pointed out. The man removed the toothpick from his mouth and let it drop from his hand onto the grass, then walked into the parking lot. “My heavens, let me help you with that,” he said.
“Thank goodness,” the mother said. “I’ve had enough problems today without this. Our room is just over there. This is very kind of you.”
IN THE MORNING he rose with the sun and showered again and put on fresh clothes and ordered a big breakfast in the café. The owner was doing double duty, running the cash register and carrying plates from the serving window to the counter and the tables.
“Where’s the little lady who was working here last night?” said the man who called himself Reverend Geta Noonen.
“That’s Rhonda.”
“Where might she be?”
“She didn’t show up this morning.”
“She has a glow about her. Sorry, what was that you said?”
“She didn’t come in. It’s not like her.” The owner looked out the window at the highway, where the sun was shining on a rock slide. The rocks were jagged and sharp-edged, and some had bounced out on the shoulder of the asphalt. The owner frowned as he looked at the broken rock on the roadside.
“Maybe she’s sick,” said the man sitting at the counter.
“She didn’t answer her phone,” the owner said.
“Does she have folks here’bouts?”
“Not really. She lives way up a dirt road by Lookout Pass. I’ve always told her she should move into town.”
“I bet she had car trouble. Her cell phone wouldn’t work out here, would it?”
“I called the sheriff. He’s sending a cruiser. You want more coffee?” the owner said.
“Maybe a piece of that cherry pie to go. I guess every man should be allowed one vice.”
“What’s that you say?”
“I’ve got an addiction to desserts. I can’t get enough. Especially cherry pie.”
“I know what you mean.”
“I doubt it.”
“Come again?” the owner said.
“Nobody likes pie and cobbler and chocolate cake and jelly roll doughnuts as much as me. I don’t gain weight, but I can sure put it down. I hope the lady is all right. She seemed like a sweet thing.”
