“Ha!” Dan laughed out loud. “Ain’t that always the case? Who is she, your girlfriend?”
“She
was
my fiancée.”
“Oh, yeah? Didn’t work out, huh?”
“Not yet.”
“What makes you think she’ll want you back?”
“I’ve got to try. That’s all I know.”
“Fair enough.”
“Do you mind if I rack out for a bit?” Warren asked.
“Knock yourself out. Nothin’ much to look at anyway.”
Warren leaned back in his seat. With his eyes closed, he listened to the sound of the rain crashing on the metal roof. There was something soothing about that sound, and the knowledge that he was moving ever closer to Ophelia. He remembered back to the first time he ever saw her; the new girl in his high school English class, wild and free and exciting. She sat in the back of the room all by herself and never said a word that day; not even when the teacher introduced her. She just gazed back at all of those pairs of eyes with practiced calm. Warren was terrified just looking at her. He had no idea why, exactly. He only knew that he’d wanted her, madly, right from the start. Warren inhaled deeply, the exhaustion of three days on the road sinking in. He crossed his arms and slowly drifted off to sleep.
When the vehicle pulled to a stop with a small jolt, Warren opened his eyes to see that they were parked in front of a small convenience store. The rain had stopped but it was dark outside, and the neon lights in the store window reflected multi-colored patterns off wet asphalt.
“I stopped to get some chaw, I hope you don’t mind,” said Dan.
Warren stretched his arms as best he could within the confines of the car.
“Pick yourself up a snack if you want,” Dan added, opening the driver’s door and climbing out. Warren got out as well and followed Dan into the store. He felt in his pocket and pulled out a small wad of bills. It was all that was left of his saxophone. He chose a small bag of peanuts and carried it to the counter. When he’d paid, Warren followed Dan back out to the SUV and took his place once again in the passenger seat. Dan broke open a fresh bag of tobacco and then stuck a pinch behind his lower lip. “Want some?” he said, holding out the bag.
“No thanks,” Warren replied, tearing open his peanuts.
“It’s a bad habit, I know,” Dan said. “It’s easier to get away with it when the wife’s not around. She hates it when I chew.” He stuck an empty paper cup in the nearest holder and then started the engine and backed out of the parking space.
“How much further to Houston?” Warren asked.
“’Bout an hour to go,” said Dan. He turned on his radio and flipped through the dial until he found a country music station. “Mind a little music?” he asked.
Warren shook his head. “No. I don’t mind.”
Back on the road, they drove for a while in silence. Warren munched on his peanuts, watching the dashes of the centerline flash past, one after another. Dan lifted his paper cup from time to time, spitting little bits of tobacco before replacing the cup in its holder. Warren knew that conversation was the price of a ride. It was his role as the passenger to keep the driver company and put his mind at ease with idle chit-chat. It was human nature to fill in these quiet spaces, but Warren just didn’t feel much like talking, so he kept quiet until Dan finally snuck him a curious look. “New Orleans is your home town, then?” Dan said.
“Yeah. I grew up there. Lived there most of my life,” Warren answered.
“Where you coming from now?”
“Los Angeles.”
“That’s a long haul. You’ve been on the road a spell.”
“Three days so far.”
“What took you out that way? You got friends there in LA?”
“I was looking for a change. That’s all.”
They drove on, listening to the music as Dan puzzled over his passenger. He opened his mouth as if to speak once again, but then seemed to change his mind. A quarter mile on he took another quick look at Warren. “You were in the service, weren’t you?” he asked.
Warren sat up a little bit straighter in his seat. He looked back at Dan wide-eyed without a word.
“I thought so,” Dan took Warren’s silence for an answer. “I was 82nd Airborne, myself. Of course that was before your time. Back in the first Gulf War. Operation Desert Storm.” Dan picked up his paper cup and spit another bit of chaw. “You serve over there, in Iraq? Or maybe Afghanistan, huh?”
“Iraq,” Warren admitted.
“I thought you was overseas. It does somethin’ to a man, don’t it? ‘Course it was bad enough when I was there, but you boys had it worse. All those roadside bombs an’ shit. IED’s, right?” He looked at Warren again. Even in the dim light of the cab he seemed to sense Warren’s stress level rising. “I’m sorry. I don’t blame you for not wantin’ to talk about it.”
“At least you were there,” Warren conceded. “Most people have no idea.”
Dan nodded. “Hey, you got a place to stay tonight, in Houston?”
“I’ll make do.”
“I live in Sugar Land. Me and the wife. I’d be honored if you’d come and stay at our place for the night.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
“Nonsense! It ain’t no trouble. Besides, Abby would love to meet you.”
Warren thought it over briefly and then nodded his head. “All right,” he answered, not without some trepidation. “That would be nice.”
“Good, that settles it then. It’s the least I can do for a man who served his country.”
As they drove on down the highway, an unexpected feeling of hope descended on Warren; enough to soothe a troubled soul, and all it took was the kindness of one stranger on a dark Texas night.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sydney Rallston stood facing a worn and weather-beaten single-story house with peeling green paint and a few toys scattered on a half-dead lawn. A work truck out front had a magnetic sign stuck to the driver’s side door. “Larry’s Landscaping: Bonded, Insured.” At the bottom was a phone number. Rallston regretted not having called ahead. Then again, he wasn’t sure they would want to talk to him at all. At least this way he’d get to face them directly. He walked past the discarded toys and up to the front door, where he stopped and rang the bell. He cleared his throat and waited. A few moments later he heard a deadbolt slide. The door swung open just a crack.
“What do you want?” came a woman’s voice, sultry yet with a hint of suspicion.
“I’m looking for Ophelia…Ignatowski,” Rallston pronounced the name carefully. “Would that happen to be you?”
“Who wants to know?” answered the voice.
“My name is Sydney Rallston. I’m a journalist, from the
Hollywood Recorder
.”
“The what?”
“It’s a trade publication. In Los Angeles.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Do you mind if I have a few words with you?” Rallston pressed.
The door opened further until Rallston and Ophelia stood face to face. Was this the same woman he’d seen in the photo? He could tell that it was, but the years showed. A cigarette hung from Ophelia’s lips. Her hair was a mess. She looked worn out by life; her eyes dulled, with any hints of optimism extinguished. With her left arm, she clung to a squirming newborn baby. Ophelia took a drag from her cigarette with her free hand. “What do you want from me?” she asked, exhaling.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about Warren August, if you don’t mind,” said Rallston.
“Why, what’d he do?” she asked plainly.
“Haven’t you heard?”
Ophelia shrugged. “Ain’t none of my business, really.”
“Warren is an actor. He’s in a movie.
The South Side
.”
“An actor?” she scoffed.
“Yes, he’s been nominated for an Academy Award.”
Suddenly the blood seemed to drain from Ophelia’s face. Her mouth hung open. “An Oscar?”
“That’s right. I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about him. What was he like, back when you knew him?”
“He won an Oscar?” Ophelia was incredulous.
“He was nominated.”
“And he’s famous?”
“I suppose, but nobody knows too much about him. He seems to have disappeared.”
“Is he rich?”
“I don’t think so.” Rallston noticed some relief pass across her face. “Can you tell me when you last heard from him?”
A man’s deep baritone came booming from within the house. “Who are you talking to?”
“Some reporter!” Ophelia shouted back.
“Anything at all you could tell me would help,” pleaded Rallston.
The man came to the door, opening it wider to face Rallston down with an angry glare. He was stocky with uncombed hair and bloodshot eyes. He wore shorts and a white tank-top shirt. In one hand he held a can of beer. “What do you want?” he demanded.
“He’s asking about Warren,” said Ophelia.
“Warren August? What about him? You working for Warren?”
“I told you, the man’s a reporter,” said Ophelia. “He says Warren won an Oscar.”
“No I…,” Rallston tried to get a word in before he was interrupted.
“Warren August did not win any goddam Oscar, and we got nothing to say about him!” Larry pushed Ophelia further backward into the house and then slammed the door in Rallston’s face.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Inside a run-down diner just off a highway 12, Sydney Rallston spotted Dorothy August-Weintraub as soon as he walked in the door. She wore a flower-print dress and sat alone in a booth near the front window, her fingers caressing a cup of coffee. When she saw Rallston come through the door she raised her right hand and gave a tentative wave. Rallston made his way to the booth.
“Dorothy Weintraub?” he asked.
“Yes, hello.”
“Sydney Rallston,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you.” She stood and shook his hand.
“I hope you weren’t waiting too long,” he said.
“Just a few minutes.” Dorothy sat once again and Rallston took the place opposite. He took his recorder from one pocket and placed it, along with his pad of paper and pen, on the table before him. A tired-looking waitress in a pink and white uniform arrived with a coffee pot in one hand and menus in the other. “Coffee?” she asked Rallston, dropping the menus on the table. “Decaf is brewing, but I’ve got regular right here.”
“Regular is fine,” said Rallston.
The waitress refilled Dorothy’s cup and then turned over another that was already on the table. She filled Rallston’s cup close to the brim, leaving little room for cream. “I’ll let you look at the menus for a while.”
Rallston watched the waitress move on to her other customers before he turned back to Dorothy. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” he said. “Just to make sure I keep my facts straight?”
“No, I don’t mind,” Dorothy answered, though she was obviously uneasy.
Rallston turned the recorder on. “I saw Ophelia earlier,” he said.
“Oh?” Dorothy raised an eyebrow. “How did that go?”
“She didn’t care to speak with me much. Neither did her husband. I’d say they were both more than a little hostile.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Dorothy.
“Why do you say that?”
“What do you know about Ophelia?”
“Not much. She and Warren dated in high school. They were engaged for a while. That’s about it.”
“Yes, well, there’s more to it than that.”
“There always is.”
Again Dorothy put a hand on either side of her coffee cup, turning it back and forth just a bit in either direction. She looked Rallston over, as though trying to divine his character. She tilted her head to one side. “Before we go any further, I think we need to be clear on a few things.”
“What sorts of things?” said Rallston in a cautious tone.
Dorothy leaned back in her seat. “What are you trying to get out of this?” she asked sternly.
“I told you, I’m a reporter…” he mumbled, on the defensive.
Dorothy nodded. “Yes, you’re a reporter. I understand that. You’re after the story, but to me it’s not just a story, it’s my brother. Warren is a good man. He’s made some mistakes in his life, but if you portray him in a negative light… He’s very sensitive. I don’t want to be responsible for any stories getting out that might hurt my brother in any way. I couldn’t take that.”
Rallston breathed in deeply and exhaled. “I’m not out to crucify Warren. I’ll treat him fairly. If he’s half as good a man as you imply, neither one of you has anything to worry about from my story.”
“Will you give me your word on that?”
“I may work in somewhat dubious profession, but some of us still subscribe to a code of ethics. I give you my word on that.”
Dorothy thought about his response. She poured a bit of cream into her coffee and then took a packet of sugar, tore off the top and dumped it in. She picked up a spoon and gave the coffee a quick stir. “The only reason I’m talking to you at all is because I want to find my brother,” she said. “I just want to find him.”
“I understand. I want to find your brother, too. He’s bound to turn up sooner or later.”
Dorothy took a sip of her coffee. The waitress stopped back by the table with an order pad in her hand. “Have you decided what you want, or do you need a few more minutes?” The waitress asked.
“Are you eating?” Rallston said to Dorothy.
“No, but go ahead if you’d like,” she replied.
“I think we’ll just stick with the coffee,” said Rallston.
The waitress nodded and picked up the menus. “You let me know if you change your minds,” she said.
When the waitress had gone, Rallston looked back to Dorothy. “Tell me about Warren and Ophelia. How did they meet?”
“They were in high school. Ophelia was new in town. Her family moved here from Thibodaux. Bayou country. Warren was smitten right away, I could tell that. Frankly, I was a little surprised she went for him. I always thought of Warren as my dorky kid brother, but he was growing up to be a handsome young man. Ophelia noticed that before I did. Before any of us did, really.” Dorothy thought back with a wistful air.
“So what happened?”