Why did he want to know? " Larry Mitchell," she said, plugging in the first surname that came to mind.
"Boring," said Enoch. " Larry Mitchell. Mr. and Mrs. Larry Mitchell. Dull as dust."
Marilee studied the stretch of desert around her. Cactus. Tumbleweeds. Dirt for miles. A few rocks, not many. Probably insects under the rocks.
"What's he do, this guy, Larry?" Enoch offered her another handful of granola, but she declined.
"He's in the military. Holloman Air Force Base."
"Does he fly jets?"
"He's a flight instructor."
"So," said Enoch, "you're going to roll into Alamogordo so you two can get hitched?"
"That's right."
"And he has no idea you're on your way?"
Heat rose off the pavement and warped vision, not unlike the aura of an impending migraine. "Well, he does, sort of. I mean he expects me. Soon. But he doesn't know when, exactly. I was going to be a surprise."
"Sort of, 'Here I am. Let's find a church,' " said Enoch.
"Sort of."
"Sort of, 'Hi, I'm moving in. Hope you don't mind.' "
"No. Not like that at all. He's going to love it when I show up. He's been wanting this for a long time."
"And you?"
"I want it," she said. "I've thought about it. It makes sense that we get married."
"Why?"
"Look, are you hungry? I'm starving. I get cranky when I don't eat. What's the next town?"
"Casa Grande."
"Let's look for a restaurant."
"Yo! Casa Grande!" Enoch shouted, raising his fist in a power salute and stomping his feet on the dashboard. A toothbrush fell out of his pants cuff.
He was definitely one weird dwarf.
"Let 's play a game," said Enoch, as soon as they'd ordered. "I'll ask you a question, then you ask me one. Whoever loses pays."
"Okay," said Marilee, although she was not sure at all that it would be okay.
"Can an irresistible force encounter an immovable object?"
"Sure." She was glad his question had been nothing personal.
"Which one gives?"
Marilee thought about it for a moment. "Well, it's really just a matter of semantics."
"Not at all," said Enoch. Two middle-aged ladies in the next booth eyed them with curiosity. Enoch's chest was level with the edge of the table; Marilee was glad the waitress hadn't offered him a booster seat.
"Okay," she said. "I guess it's impossible to answer."
"Bingo. One to nothing. Your turn."
Marilee took her time thinking of a question. She turned down the corners of her paper place mat. She traced her spoon over the outline of a hobo eating pancakes. He looked a little like Enoch. Sipping coffee, she stared out the window at the filling station next door. The attendant scratched himself when he must have thought no one was looking.
"All right, I've got one. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"
"Impossible to know," said Enoch. "And a cliché."
" Think again." Two could play this game.
A group of teenagers erupted in laughter from across the room. They sneaked occasional glances at Enoch.
"Impossible," he said again.
"The egg," said Marilee. "It's obvious. At some point there had to be a mutation. But by the time the egg is formed, it has all its genetic material intact. It's a potential chicken. So the responsible gene, the gene that made the critical difference, had to have mutated inside the hen before it became part of the fertilized egg. And something had to pass on that altered gene. Something that was not quite a chicken but gave rise to a mutant egg that was destined to become the world's first chicken."
Enoch's face brightened. "Yes, that's logical. Very good." Their waitress appeared with their dinners. She wore a red ruffled skirt and an embroidered hat that said, "Doreen."
"I've got another."
"My turn," said Enoch, dipping a french fry in the Thousand Island dressing that ran out the side of his Hoboburger. "If God is all powerful, can he build an object too heavy for him to move?"
"Another paradox."
"Are you certain?"
"Positive."
"I win," said Enoch. "If God is all powerful, he can transcend paradox."
"What makes you so certain God's a he?"
"Different question. Stick to the point."
Marilee thought about the point. "Interesting," she said, forcing a smile; secretly, she was pissed. "Now it's my turn. A man is walking down a road. In order to take a step, he must first travel half that distance. A half-step. Then, in order to take a half-step, he must first travel a distance half the length of that. Will he ever reach his destination?" She bit into her club sandwich and hit a toothpick.
"Zeno's paradox. The answer is no."
"Wrong," said Marilee, with her mouth full. "Faulty premise. People don't move in half-steps, do they?"
"Then again, some people don't move at all."
What was that supposed to mean? She pinched a blister from the end of her bacon and buried it under her carrot twist. "All right. How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?"
"Box-step or hora?" said Enoch.
They ate the rest of their meal in silence. When Doreen brought their check, they agreed to split it. Marilee took the money to the cashier while Enoch went in search of a bathroom. She'd gone earlier, while the hostess was seating Enoch, because she didn't want to be seen walking through the restaurant with a dwarf.
Marilee paid the bill and sat on the brown vinyl seat by the coffee shop's front door. Five minutes passed. Then ten. What was he doing in there? she wondered, then asked herself if she really wanted to know. And why, come to think of it, was she sitting there waiting? This was her chance. She'd never have to see him again.
Her keys jangled as she made her way swiftly through the parking lot. But as soon as she opened the car door, she saw that Enoch had left his backpack. Now what? She could leave it on the ground, but what if somebody stole it? No, she'd have to take it into the restaurant and leave it for him there. She started the engine and steered the Dart toward the entrance. As she pulled up, an elderly woman held the door open for Enoch.
"That's nice," he said, resuming his seat next to the melons. "Bringing the car around. Thanks."
"Sure," said Marilee. She knew what it felt like to steal from an invalid. Strike a child. Throw a kitten off a bridge.
" So," said Enoch, as soon as they were back on the highway. "What does this Larry guy do for kicks?"
Not again, thought Marilee. "Well, mainly he likes to jog, work out with weights, that sort of thing. He's into fitness. Poetry. Books about the Civil War."
"That's it?"
"Sometimes he has friends over and they rent movies."
"Porno flicks?"
"Oh, God no, he'd die." Marilee laughed. "I bet he's never even seen one."
"Have you?"
She looked over at the little man in her front seat cleaning his fingernails with the corner of a Hobo matchbook.
"So show me this guy," he said.