We Begin at the End(101)

They stopped at towns and people came and went, old men that carried something quiet and forgotten, young men with backpacks and maps and plans, and the couples whose love spilled down the aisle and made Duchess turn her head. The driver, a black man who smiled at her when the bus slept and they were the only people to see a hitchhiker framed by a Colorado sunrise.

Trucks broken down, hood up and men bent over and in, their women watching the silver pass. Diners and cop cars, Lincolns and a stretch too far from anywhere worth going.

At Caroga Plain a man with a guitar got on and asked the few if they minded and they all shook their heads so he sang about golden slumbers, his voice rough but something in it stripping the roof from the old bus and letting the stars fall in.

It was only the night, when the moon emptied into the Artaya Canyon and the driver slowed the bus and dimmed the lights that Duchess allowed herself to think of Robin. It hurt her, not like the kind of sweetheart hurt she read about in the glossy someone had left in the seatback, this was a raw kind of gut your soul pain, so fierce she doubled over and gasped for air, reached into her bag and found her water and took shallow breaths into the bottle. The driver caught her eye, his filled with wasted concern, she would not be alright, nothing about her would ever be alright again.

She ran out of money someplace outside of Dotsero, bulging hills cratered, a volcano rose, green trees parted for sterile land so red she bent to touch it.

She found a phonebooth at a truck stop on 70, water rushing on ahead, fighting its way from Rocky Mountains to the spread of Mexico and beyond. She called collect and the operator connected her to a world she felt far from. By grace alone she got Claudette and she fought off talk of coming back and the cops and the trouble. She held on just long enough for Claudette to tell her yeah, he was doing okay. And then Claudette told her to wait and she’d fetch him.

She hung up when she heard him, and then fell against the brick, a long road from anywhere, too small to be alone, the sky a gathering storm she could not outrun. Her brother saying hello, quiet like he was in on a secret, and her unable to find a word, not a single word to say to him, not even sorry for what she had done and what she would do.

She spent her last two bucks on milk and a dry bagel.

She sat there four hours, the sun crawling its arc, the hand of a clock that pushed morning to the blaze of afternoon. In the gas station a woman worked the counter, a magazine hidden behind, her head down and tired. She wore large glasses and had a stain on her shirt. She gave Duchess the key to the restroom, smiled quick as she did, like she knew the crossroads the girl lived at and had seen so many like her before.

Inside smelled bad, graffiti scrawled on every surface, romantic declarations Tom & Betty-Laurel Fucked Here, numbers to call for a good time. Duchess carefully stripped off her T-shirt and jeans, washed herself with soap she pumped from the dispenser then dried off with paper towels. She splashed icy water onto her face, the tired creeped from her eyes.

Outside she watched truckers, trying to select the right one based on nothing more than a gut instinct that had not steered her all that well in the past.

An hour later she settled on a big guy with a plaid shirt and handlebar mustache. He drove a clean rig, the name Annie-Beth on the hood, a heart on either side.

She approached him and he smiled, took in her wet hair, Stetson, small bag and ninety-pound frame.

“Where do you need to get?”

“Maybe Vegas.”

“Vegas, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“You a runaway?”

“No.”

“I could get in trouble.”

“I’m not a runaway. I’m eighteen.”

He laughed at that.

“I’m passing Fish Lake.”

“Where’s that?”

“Utah.”

“Alright.”

As they drove she watched the world, view high and commanding. The cab smelled of leather. The big guy was Malcolm, like his parents expected him to stop growing at five seven and work accounts. There was a plant on the dash, she took that as a good sign. And a photo of a girl not much older than her and a woman beside.

“Is that Annie-Beth?” she said.

“My girl.”

“Pretty.”

“Sure is. That’s old now … nineteen. University, political science.” Pride colored every word. “I check in with her every night. She’s just, she’s so smart we didn’t even know where it came from. A blessing.”

“That your wife with her?”

“Used to be. I liked to drink.” He pointed to a pin on the dash. “Eighteen months sober.”

“Maybe she’ll take you back.”

“Not on the cards for me yet. I got a plant, cactus, I keep that healthy for six months then maybe. It’s all about taking it back, right.”

She looked at the cactus on the dash, long dead. She wondered if he knew, and also just how hard it was to kill a cactus.

He tried asking her a little, she gave nothing so he quit, pushed his visor down to cull the bright and then rode mile after mile.

She slept a little, woke with such a start he told her it was alright. She saw red rock, dried-out yellows and orange, sunset on a road so long and straight she wondered if she was dreaming.

At a truck stop he told her that was all. She thanked him and he wished her well.

“Go home,” he said.