The Heart You Carry Home (18 page)

“The CO brought them together. Isn't that right, Dooley?”

Dooley was skinny with thick lips and sleepy blue eyes. He chewed his cereal like a cow chewed its cud. “Yes, ma'am,” he said. “I had nobody until I met the CO.”

Dooley struck Becca as kind enough. “Nobody?” she said.

“Fought together, came out alone,” Dooley said. “Kinda like life, that way—go in alone, go out alone.”

“Look who's the poet,” said the next vet over. He looked half Hells Angel, half Viking warrior, and he had bright orange eyebrows and a black bandanna tied do-rag-style around his head. The patch sewn to the front of his vest depicted two flaming swords and a cross.

“Now we've done it,” Dooley said to Becca in a stage whisper. “Everybody, hold on to your Bibles. Frank's about to evangelize the shit out of this breakfast.”

A bunch of guys laughed and Frank's face colored. “You can't embarrass me before the Lord,” he said. “We come into this world and walk back out of it beside the Son of God.” He pointed his spoon at Becca. “That's the Truth.”

“That's a capital
T
on
Truth
,” Dooley said. “And don't you forget it.”

Frank grew serious. “You gotta be careful around these nonbelievers—er, what's your name?”

“Becca.”

“And you better be careful, Becca,” Dooley said, “or Frank here'll make you join the CMA. Christian Motorcyclists Association.”

Frank displayed his vest patch with pride. “And if
you're
not careful, Becca,” Frank said, attempting to one-up his friend, “Dooley here will try to turn you against the sweetest piece of tail ever to grace the silver screen simply because he doesn't like her politics.”

Becca noticed the patch on Dooley's vest pocket:
I'll forgive Jane Fonda when the Jews forgive Hitler
.

Now it was Dooley's face turning red. “She's a traitor and a b—”

“Hey!” snapped Frank. “There's a lady at the table.”

“Enough of the bickering!” Elaine interrupted brightly. “Check out what King's daughter did last night!” She lifted Becca's arm by the elbow. “Come on, honey. Show off your new accessory.”

Becca held out her wrist for inspection. The group was clearly impressed. King just shook his head, but he looked more amused than angry.

“Your girl loves you,” Elaine said. King grunted and packed a plastic spoonful of corn flakes into his mouth.

After breakfast, the group suited up and loaded their bikes. Elaine climbed onto the passenger seat of King's Gold Wing.
So
that's
why he bought it,
Becca thought. She saw Elaine whisper something into King's ear and then heard King laugh heartily, his belly bouncing in small hiccups. She still felt conflicted about her father's relationship with Elaine, but she couldn't help smiling. He looked happy.

As Becca searched for Reno's Harley, she inspected their expanded group. Frank had a picture of Jesus spray-painted onto his gas tank—the Son of God as He might have looked if He were in an eighties hair band. Dooley tossed her his helmet for her inspection. “I've got thirty-one stickers!” he announced with the excitement of a little girl. Becca turned the object over in her hands:
God Created Adam and Eve, Not Adam and Steve
;
VFW: Veterans Fucked by Washington
;
Jane Fonda, American Traitor Bitch
;
Jesus Loves You—I Think You Are an Asshole
;
Politicians and Diapers Need to Be Changed Often and for the Same Reason
;
If You Can Read This, the Bitch Fell Off
.

“It's great?” she said, unsure of how else to respond. Not so politically correct, these men. Finally, she spotted Reno. He barely looked at her as she climbed on and zipped up her new jacket. “Lovely day, don't you think?” she said, thrusting a good dose of coldness into her tone. But at the same moment, Reno started the engine, and her voice was revved into nothing.

Now eighteen strong, the line of bikes snaked southwest, heading toward gray mountains that looked upholstered in elephant hide. They stopped for gas once in Colorado and again in New Mexico. At the second stop King handed his daughter a Snickers, a Slim Jim, and an energy drink. “We're riding through lunch,” he said. “I didn't want you to go hungry.”

This generosity was so unexpected that Becca felt her throat catch. “I have money, Dad. You don't have to—”

“You're my kid.” King's expression was dead serious. “I won't have anybody saying I'm not looking out for you. Now, get your helmet on. For some reason, Reno's acting pissed as hell today.”

Becca climbed on the Harley, perplexed by the dynamic in play. Apparently she couldn't be in favor with her father and Reno at the same time.

The landscape morphed through the next leg, going from small, scattered boulders dotting dehydrated grass to rocky hills to desert. Becca tried to eat the Snickers but the helmet's inner padding compressed her cheeks into a fish pucker, and the helmet's jutting chin piece made it nearly impossible to drink anything without spilling most of the liquid down her neck.

Late afternoon set upon them and then dusk, with streaks of pink and pale yellow crisscrossing the horizon. The color drained from a single point in the distance where a great structure—like a finger of rock—punctured the sky. Just before the last rays vanished, the full formation came into view.
Shiprock
, said a sign, though it looked less like a ship and more like something from
Close Encounters
.

The nearby town—also named Shiprock—was an ugly, utilitarian way station through which eighteen-wheelers thundered en route to more populated destinations. Becca climbed off Reno's bike and stretched her back and quads.

“That's not the Jane Fonda workout, is it?” Frank said as he walked past. “You better not let Dooley see you doing those exercises.”

“I'm wearing leather, not spandex,” Becca said.

“And it suits you.” Frank gave her an avuncular nod.

The men headed across the parking lot toward a windowless building.
Hot Wheels Grill
, read the sign, though it looked more like a strip club. Becca had to pee something awful, but she shuddered at the thought of the Hot Wheels bathrooms. Instead, she hurried toward the closest storefront, the Indigenous Hair Salon.

A forty-something woman with ample padding on her chest and stomach sat in a chair as the hairdresser worked neon curlers into her hair. The stylist looked to be in her midtwenties, a little bit arty, a little bit punk. When Becca walked in and asked to use the bathroom, the women just stared. “We've been riding for
ever
,” Becca added, worried her leather jacket was giving the wrong impression. Female biker-gang members surely didn't say things like for
ever
.

“Did you ride in here with those men?” the hairdresser asked, incredulous.

“I love myself a biker,” said the busty woman in the chair. “Or two!” She jumped up, pulled off the salon smock, and scurried to the door, her hips shaking in too-small black pants.

“Cholene. Get your ass back here,” the hairdresser ordered. But Cholene had slipped out the door. She strutted across the parking lot despite the fact that half her head was a junk heap of rollers. “Bathroom's back there,” the hairdresser said. Becca thanked her and hurried in. “So who are those guys?” the hairdresser called to Becca through the door. “I don't want Cholene getting into any trouble.”

Becca flushed and came out to wash her hands. “They're harmless.”

At that moment Cholene reappeared, grinning, her breasts bobbing like buoys. “Some real cute ones, Vicky. And they're going to the casino after dinner!”

Becca turned toward the door. “Well, thanks,” she said.

“Wait.” Vicky stood with her hand on her hip, biting her lip. “They're eating in Hot Wheels? That's
not
your kind of place.”

Before, Becca had worried that the jacket was giving these women the wrong impression. Now it wasn't doing its job. Wasn't it supposed to make her look at least a little intimidating?

“Really,” Vicky said. “There was a knife fight in that place last week. Two people went to the hospital.”

Cholene nodded. “Also, it's a total hepatitis trap. Even I wouldn't eat there.”

Becca had known Cholene for all of two minutes, but it was clear that coming from her, the statement carried weight.

“We've got Cup o' Noodles!” Cholene added. “And you could have a trim.” She put her hand up next to her mouth like she was sharing a secret. “Vicky here really needs the business.”

“You sure you don't mind?” Becca asked, and the women nodded. “Okay,” she said and allowed herself to smile a little. “What kind of noodles you got?”

“So where are you and all your men going?” Vicky asked as she put hot water in the Styrofoam cup and then handed it to Becca.

“They're not exactly my men,” Becca said as she blew on the soup. She hadn't had one of these since freshman year. She'd forgotten how delicious they could be when you were really hungry.

“Tell me about the one with the panther eyes,” Cholene said.

“That's Bull. He's kind of an asshole.”

“I like myself an ass,” Cholene said and winked. And then, as though concerned she hadn't been clear enough, “A nice biker ass.”

Vicky snorted. “So you were telling us where you're going?” she asked, deftly sectioning and pinning Cholene's hair.

When Becca told them about Utah, Cholene screwed up her face. “There's nothing to do in Utah.”

“I'm sorry,” Vicky said, “but Shiprock takes the prize for bumblefuck.”

Becca thought about how far she'd come since leaving Dry Hills—even since Kath's cabin. She had jumped the dog fence, all right. And yet these women considered their own part of the country more boring and backward than anywhere else on earth. Did anyone not feel boxed in? Was anyone ever satisfied? New Yorkers, maybe. But no, because those were the people who visited Kath in Arkansas. And yet. There'd been a time with Ben when Becca hadn't wanted any more than exactly what she had.

“So, the place in Utah?” Cholene demanded with a child's impatience.

“Kleos,” Becca said.

Vicky's hands went still. “No shit. That's a ghost town.”

“Now you've got her started,” Cholene mumbled. “You know why Vic here doesn't have a boyfriend? It's 'cause she wastes every weekend visiting rotting buildings and tetanus traps. Not as bad as hepatitis traps, but still!”

“Cholene doesn't appreciate history,” Vicky said.

Cholene held up the
Us Weekly
she was paging through. “I'm more interested in current events.” She winked at Becca a second time.

“My dad's friend lives there.”

Vicky shook her head. “Doubtful. The closest town is Navajo Perch, about thirty miles away.”

“What do you mean, ‘ghost town'?” Becca asked.

“Kleos used to be Indian land,” Vicky explained. “Then U.S. Marshals discovered the Indians making bullets from the silver they'd mined. Then, well, suddenly it wasn't Indian land anymore. After that came the prospectors. And after them, I think it was the Mormons. Then the silver ran out. Now it's empty.”

“Why would anybody waste silver on bullets?” Cholene said.

Vicky wrapped up the final section of Cholene's hair. “Hair dryer,” she said and pointed to a chair against the wall. Cholene pushed and prodded the rollers with a long, manicured nail. “Leave it alone,” Vicky said.

“I need a cigarette.” Cholene fished in her purse. “Get the history lesson over with while I'm gone.”

“It's kind of awesome how these places keep trading hands,” Vicky continued. “Proves that nothing really belongs to anybody. I know, that's not really the indigenous thing to say . . . but I love how the towns are like undiscovered planets or lost civilizations. I'm a sci-fi nerd. So.”

Cholene returned after a few minutes and lowered herself into the chair beneath the dryer. She pointed and flexed her painted toes, admiring them like she was a movie starlet. “Did you say this ghost town was near Navajo Perch? 'Cause I just heard something about that.”

“Did you now?” Vicky said and brought the plastic dryer down over Cholene's curlers. The woman looked like a stripper-astronaut. Becca tried not to laugh.

“I ran into Ella Gibson and Mindy Nez at the drugstore.”

“Ella's and Mindy's husbands are medicine men,” Vicky explained to Becca.

“They mentioned some Facebook rumor about strange ceremonies in the desert. Ritual fires,” Cholene said.

“Ella's and Mindy's husbands are on Facebook?”

“Why can't medicine men be on Facebook?” Cholene demanded. “Anyway, they told their wives that people were being burned out there.”

“That's Burning Man, Cho.”

“I
know
Burning Man. That's not it.”

“Cholene, do you have any idea how you sound to this girl? She's going to walk out of here thinking we're lunatics.”

“Vic here is one of three atheists on the rez. You can't talk to her about anything spiritual. Now, how's my hair?”

“Are you kidding?” Vicky said. “We just put that thing on.”

“I don't want to keep the biker men waiting.” Cholene winked yet again at Becca.

The mention of the men reminded Becca that she'd been in the hair salon for a while. She peered through the store window and saw a group smoking outside the bar. She'd been meaning to search Reno's bike for Kath's letter, but she'd missed her chance. “I should probably get going,” she said, disappointed to be leaving them so soon. “But maybe I'll see you later tonight at the casino?”