She puts one of her digoxin pills under her tongue. She’s in a bad state, gray-white. She gasps out her story of how she’s worked her way up the street, stopping and popping pills so she can fight her way to us.
I can’t hold myself back.
‘Mother, it couldn’t be that important. It’s insane for you to run up here with a box of pills. You’ll kill yourself for nothing.’
But she had to come. She knew we were only up the street, here with Dad, and she wasn’t. She couldn’t stay away.
We help her into the car and drive home. I put her to bed, make her take a ten-milligram Valium. We go through the entire goodbye scene again.
I signal Billy to get in the car. I tell Mother, firmly as I can, I must go. I say goodbye, kiss her, turn around and leave. Joan has finally found somebody to come twice a week, and she herself will come twice more; still, I feel guilty into my very soul.
Our plan is to head straight toward Vegas, packing as much desert as possible behind us during the night. Summers, it’s damned hot out there even in an air-conditioned car.
We begin having trouble before we get near the desert. We’re twenty miles from San Bernardino when the voltage indicator starts flashing. The only thing is to turn back; we might make it to L.A. but that’s about all.
We pull into a garage I know on Pico Boulevard. The voltage regulator is shot, has to be replaced, a minimum hundred bucks, parts and labor. Damn!
I call AAA CON and tell them what’s happened. They tell me to call the owner, collect. I do that. After considerable shuffling around I get an OK. This means money out of pocket but we’ll get it back when we deliver. The garage says the car will be ready by morning. I get a few extra days’ travel time from Scarlietti, too.
We can’t go back to Mother’s. I don’t think I could sleep again in that back room, too many bad memories, bad nights. Marty, my daughter, lives near the garage so Billy and I hoof it over there.
Marty gives me two aspirins and puts me down in their bedroom. I can hear them, Marty, her husband Gary and Billy in the front room watching TV, a rerun of Mission Impossible.
I have a tremendous yen to cry. Twice I go into the bathroom, sit on the toilet, but the way Dad couldn’t piss, I can’t cry. I spread-eagle on the bed and it catches up with me; I’m gone.
Marty and Gary sleep on the floor and Billy sleeps on the couch. I have the only bed in the house all to myself. We sure have nice kids.
We’re all up at seven for breakfast. Both Gary and Marty need to be at work by eight.
When I call, the car’s ready; but the bill’s twenty-five dollars over estimate. We walk down and pick it up.
We cruise out Wilshire Boulevard. I bid a silent farewell to L.A.: all its artificiality, the sugar-coated hardness. I can’t say I’m sorry to go; it’s been a rough stay. I know I’ll miss Joan but I’ve learned to live with that.
We drive into the sun, due east. Then out through San Bernardino and up over the pass.
Coming down the other side, heading toward Vegas, maybe a hundred twenty miles outside L.A., an enormous dog dashes in front of our car. I jam the brakes but they don’t grab straight and we almost flip. Lucky there isn’t much traffic because we rear-spin and I hit the dog anyway. He thumps front left and bounces off right. I pull up on the shoulder and we run back.
The dog’s spinning around; his hindquarters are smashed. He should be dead but he’s twisting and howling. It’s hard to look or listen; he’s snapping and we can’t get near. It takes almost five awful minutes for him to slow down and die. There’s no collar or identification so we drag him off to the side of the road, into the bushes. It’s some kind of German shepherd, big as a wolf. We take out the tire iron and use it as a shovel to dig a shallow grave in the sand. We cover it with dry grasses and pieces of brushwood.
There’s not a mark on the front of our car. It’s incredible the difference between machines and animals. We must’ve hit him with either the tire or the bumper. Back in the car, we don’t talk much for the next hundred miles.
Then, about forty miles this side of Vegas, there’s some kind of motor-cross race up on the hills beside the road. Billy’s excited by this so we stop. I stay in the car. To me, it looks baked, barren, violent, but this is terrific for Billy. Everything that’s attractive to him – the unfinished, random quality, the rough-and-ready atmosphere, the noise, the smells – only reminds me of things I don’t want to remember. At Billy’s age I had too much of it, enough to last more than a lifetime. Comfort gets bigger as I grow older, comfort and the illusion of predictability.
After ten minutes, Bill’s back, eyes flashing in vicarious thrill; he’s seen some new four-stroke he’s never seen before.
An hour later, we roll into Vegas. The town’s just had a flash flood. Caesar’s Palace is thick packed clay up to the terraces. The parking lots are caking mudflats. It makes even more obvious how Vegas, plumb smack in the middle of a desert, is an insult to nature.
It’s weird seeing this counterfeit world inundated with thick, caking, beige mud, cracking in the sun like a Christmas tree in a trash can, tinsel still sparkling.
We park close as possible and hurry in from under the heat. It’s well past noon. Lead-heavy sun is forcing itself hard into the tops of our heads. It must be a hundred or more in the shade.
We walk into a sudden shock of cold. We tromp mud onto pus-yellow and blood-red carpets, on into the dimness. There’s the whir and tinkle of slot machines. There’s a refrigerated-air smell mixed with the heavy smell of perfume, money and fear. We’re wrapped in the cloying atmosphere of this warped, hopeful, hopeless world.
We’re going to spend a buck in nickels each. Billy loses his in five minutes. He says the percentages against throwing in twenty nickels without a single payoff are astronomic, but that’s what he does. I only want to get through mine but I’m having the opposite problem. I’m soon to where I have over twenty bucks in nickels; my hands are full, my pockets bulging. I keep giving handfuls to Billy so he can lose them. I want to get the hell out. Something in me doesn’t want to win; I don’t want to take any of those nickels with me.
But it takes an hour of hard work before we finally do it. We’d be down to ten nickels and I’d hit another jackpot. Bells would ring and girls dressed like twirlers would come over to help me! Thank God, Billy’s having such awful luck or we’d still be there, pumping machines with bloody hands while slots spat nickels.
We go out in the heat and drive on, looking for something to eat. We both want a Mexican restaurant for our last Western tacos, but settle on a place called Pizza Hut. We go in; more air conditioning; checkered tablecloths. We split a pitcher of beer and have a pizza each. I’m beginning to feel I just might, at last, be getting away; going home.
It’s past three in the afternoon when we roll again. We’re pushing to make Zion. I know a good motel there, right at the opening to the park. But I make a mistake between Zion and Bryce. We drive through my place and it’s eleven o’clock before we get to Bryce. There are no restaurants open and we can’t find a motel. I’ve really screwed us up royally but Billy isn’t complaining; not out loud, anyway.
Finally, we find a small bar, just closing up. The counterman makes us pork sandwiches with mayonnaise. He serves us a beer each. This guy also phones some cabins in Bryce and there’s room. One of the great things about traveling is you find out how many good, kind people there are.
We drive up into a wooded area, right in the park; the cabins cost fourteen dollars a night. I take a shower, hoping it will calm me. I’m jittery, nervous. I have some Seconal but I won’t use it if I don’t need to. I have Valium, too. I’ve gotten to be quite the pill freak from this whole experience. I’d never taken a tranquilizer or sleeping pill in my life before.
I lie back and decide