He Started It(22)

Felix heads straight for the shower, not noticing anything, and I don’t stop him. I want to be sure.

I try to remember if I looked at my phone before we went out for the walk. What I do remember is rolling off the bed and into my clothes, pulling on my shoes right before we left the room. If I had looked at my phone and saw the light blinking, I would’ve read the messages. I would’ve looked at Instagram to see if he had posted anything.

I check the time the new ones came in. Maybe it was while we were walking, and I’m wrong about this. Maybe I did check my phone before we left.

Nope.

All of the new messages arrived in the middle of the night, after I went to sleep and before we left. Even the spam.

I immediately check my bag and wallet. Nothing is missing. All money and credit cards are accounted for, and so is the book.

Still, someone has been in this room.

I don’t mention my phone or the room to anyone, not even Felix. Not yet. He’ll think it’s those guys in the truck, because right now they’re being blamed for everything. I don’t think they did it.

But I bet I know who did.



* * *



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    “I’ve got it,” Portia says. We’ve just started on our way. “It’s called RE-AL.” She pronounces it with two syllables. “Healthy food, no grease.”

Fantastic.

The restaurant is in a remote corner of Kansas, right near the border with the Oklahoma Panhandle. On the way there, no one mentions the pickup truck or lack thereof.

At RE-AL, we are greeted by the owners, who are young and hip and have New York accents. In the first few minutes, we learn that one is a former chef at a big NYC restaurant and the other worked in advertising. They fled New York for a cheaper way of life. I don’t like the food or the faux New York style, but there’s no grease and it’s not barbeque. It’s not even faux barbeque, so I don’t complain about how tasteless the food is.

“I have to admit,” Felix says. “This was a really good idea. We’ve been eating the worst food.”

“Although it does taste good,” Eddie says.

Portia glares at him. “So does this.”

“All the food on this trip has been delicious,” Felix says.

We all nod.

Krista is a big fan of RE-AL. She even stays behind to chat with the owners after we’re done. Felix goes to the restroom. Portia walks outside to check the tire again, which leaves Eddie and me alone. It’s the first time since Krista sent me that text.

“Truth,” I say. “Did you see that truck following us?”

“No. I told you I didn’t.”

I take one last sip of organic, natural caffeine-infused tea. “Krista seems to think you did see it.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Well, of course I told her that. I’m not about to tell her she’s wrong.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’re afraid of your own wife.”

“I’m not afraid, I’m just avoiding a fight. You saw what she’s like when she’s mad.”

I did, a couple days ago when she was spewing venom in every direction. “What was that about?”

“She’s just jealous. Thinks I flirt too much.”

“You do.”

He shrugs. “Can’t help it.”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“So I’ve been told.”



* * *



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When I first heard the name Cadillac Ranch, I naturally assumed it was an actual ranch, the kind with cows and horses and pigs. Chickens running around. Dogs barking. Cowboys lassoing. That type of thing.

Instead it’s ten Cadillacs half stuck in the ground and covered in graffiti. There is no ranch, no animals, no pasture. Just a sculpture, as Grandpa called it, and it had something to do with the open road and American cars and some millionaire who paid to create it.

How stupid, I said then. My opinion changed, though not because burying cars in the dirt was a good idea. It isn’t, but there is something special about the place.

Last time, Grandpa brought the paint. This time, Eddie has it.

“Everyone pick a car and paint,” he says.

We aren’t the only ones here. Tourists are everywhere, mostly taking selfies with their own graffiti. I go straight to the third Cadillac from the left and look up at the underside between the two wheels. I don’t care whose picture I’m in, or if I’m in someone’s way. Green paint, that’s what I’m looking for. Even just a piece of it.

“It’s been too long.”

Portia. She is standing behind me and staring at the same spot.

“Probably,” I say.

“Definitely.”

She walks away.

I don’t stop looking. I look for so long that I think I see a speck of the same green paint, buried under twenty years of graffiti.

This place was less crowded back then. Some took pictures, though not with phones. It was hotter than it is today, and there were more children because school hadn’t started yet. Kids climbed all over the cars, inside and out. Portia loved it, I didn’t. At twelve, I thought of myself as basically a teenager. Too old for such things.