Saturday, December 1, 2007
âCalifornia, here I come,â Scarlett shouted out the window of her aging Benz into the Texas prairie. No one was around to hear, but that was okay. Before long, lots of people would know Scarlett, hairstylist to the stars. She rolled up the window, feeling refreshed from the brisk, cool air.
She was making good time, despite the wrong turn sheâd taken back in Dallas. And sheâd missed Interstate 35W because sheâd been surrounded by huge gravel-hauler trucks. Instead of backtracking, Scarlet had continued on. Eventually, Texas Highway 114 would intersect westbound Interstate 40, somewhere in Oklahoma.
Over an hour after missing the interstate, she passed a city sign that said Loving and noted the town had just a few small buildings. âIâm not loving Texas right now,â she said out loud, and laughed at her joke. She turned up the radio and sang along with U2.
Her smile faded when she looked into the rearview mirror to check on an old truck sheâd just passed. It was weaving under the weight of about a thousand chicken crates that looked as if they might fall over at any minute.
But the old truck wasnât the only vehicle with a problem. Black smoke billowed in fat inky spirals from her engineâthat noisy diesel combustion thing. She knew just enough about cars to add oil, water and of course, fuel, intermittently. Black smoke could not be good. Not good at allâ¦
She checked the gauges and discovered her engine was red-hot. And her oil gauge needle was not where it was supposed to be. When had that happened?
âDarn it,â she murmured as she slowed the Benz and looked for a place to pull off. Up ahead, she spotted a wide, rocky patch of dry brown grass and prickly pear cactus. Sheâd let the car cool off, add some water and oil from the stash she never left home without, and get to the next service station.
She shut off the engine, then opened her door. The cold air coming out of the north nearly took her breath away. Just then the old truck chugged by. It slowed, and Scarlett felt a moment of panic. Was it safe to be alone out here? She hadnât been afraid traveling by herself all the way from Atlanta, and it was broad daylight.
âNeed any help?â a raspy voice called to her. A man leaned out the window and Scarlett could see a leathery, stubbled cheek and some missing teeth.
âNo, Iâm okay.â I hope. Maybe I should prayâ¦.
âIf you need a ride, I can take you to Brodyâs Crossing.â
âThanks, but my car just needs a rest. Iâm adding some oil and weâll be on our way soon.â
âCould be blown.â
What could be blown? She didnât even want to think about that statement! âUmâ¦â
âWell, rideâs up to you.â
âI appreciate the offer, but Iâm prepared for this type of situation.â Not that this exact scenario had ever happened before.
âGood luck to you, little gal.â
Scarlett stifled her surprise. Little gal? âIs there a service station in Brodyâs Crossing?â So far, sheâd only seen modern convenience stores-slash-filling stations.
âMcCaskieâs. Itâs on the main street. Canât miss it.â
âWell, thanks again.â
âSure ânuff,â he said, before spitting between his missing teeth. ââCourse, Claude may not work on these fur-in cars.â Then he put his truck in gear and slowly inched away, crates swaying and chickens squawking.
Fur-in? Oh, he meant foreign. Howâ¦quaint. She hoped McCaskieâs wasnât as predisposed to American-made.
Scarlett let out a sigh. She was all alone with a broken down fur-in car. Oh, well. Worse things could happen.
At least she still had all her teeth.
MCCASKIEâS SERVICE STATION was closed for the afternoon. And things had definitely gotten worse.
Oh, she still had her teeth. And she hadnât sprouted any facial hair. But her car sat dying beside the road a little more than halfway to Graham, which sheâd learned during her ride to townâin a drafty pickup loaded with Christmas treesâwas the county seat and the largest town in the area. She huddled out of the wind next to two old-fashioned pumps, wondering what to do now.
Today was Saturday afternoon. Didnât these people need to drive around, buy gas? The sign on the fingerprint-smudged glass door of McCaskieâs simply indicated the place was closed for the afternoon, and advised people to âhave fun.â What the heck?
Brodyâs Crossing looked as if it had been designed as a movie set for Holiday Hometown, America, complete with tinsel garlands and peppermint canes swaying from streetlights in the brisk wind. A few temporary traffic barricades stood on the sidewalk.
She hoisted her backpack-style purse onto her shoulder, zipped up her hooded sweatshirt and set off for the central business district, which she figured was maybe two blocks long. Three at the most. Sheâd seen small towns similar to this when her mother had dragged her around Georgia, antiquing.