The Big Wander Read online

  “We’ll find him. I have this feeling.”

  Mike hooted. “You didn’t even find out where he was when he called!”

  “I know, I know…. I could hardly hear a thing. It was a bad connection. Really bad. I just couldn’t think.”

  “Yeah, I know, you got so excited. Well, we know he was in Bluewater a couple of years ago, that’s a start. Clay, you have your own unique style, I’ll have to give you that.”

  Mike had a big grin across his face. Clay was sure that the farther Mike got away from Seattle the better he would feel. This was beginning to be just like the old days. And the whole summer was stretching out in front of them.

  Clay returned the grin, brandished his ballpoint, and went to work on his postcard:

  Dear President Kennedy,

  My brother Mike and I are big fans of yours. My mother wanted to join the Peace Corps, but she’s a teacher and couldn’t be gone for two years. But this summer she went to Guatemala with a church group called Amigos.

  Mike and I, we’re out looking for our uncle. You may have heard of him—Clay Jenkins—used to be a famous rodeo cowboy. Keep up the good work.

  Your friend,

  Clay Lancaster

  “I had to kind of squeeze it in,” Clay said as he finished up.

  “You think he can read your chicken scratch?”

  “Do you think it will get to him if I just address it to the White House in Washington, D.C.?”

  “Sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue. I don’t see why he wouldn’t get it, and he ought to like that eight-foot trout lashed to the horse. Probably don’t see many of those in Washington.”

  3

  Oklahoma City was coming in strong now. It was getting dark. Mike liked to drive at night because the radio came in so much better, especially KOMA. Ricky Dare was playing “Return to Sender” and Mike was singing along. Clay hoped his brother would start looking more on the bright side of breaking up, the way Elvis seemed to in the song. Elvis was torn up and everything, but he didn’t sound like he was going to die from it.

  But wouldn’t you know, the very next song was “Sheila.” “Blue eyes and a ponytail” and all that. As soon as the song started, Mike was shot through the heart. Well, Sheila’s eyes really were as blue as you’ll ever see, and she did wear her hair in a ponytail. She did after the song came out, that is.

  Clay knew not to try to talk to Mike during “Sheila,” and it got even worse when Ricky Dare followed with “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” as if he were broadcasting Mike’s life story.

  “I wish they’d play ‘The Loco-Motion,’” Clay suggested, hoping to derail his brother’s train of thought. “Or ‘The Twist.’ Hey, do you know why Chubby Checker named himself Chubby Checker?”

  “‘Fraid not,” Mike mumbled. His eyes seemed so lost in the distance Clay wondered if he’d get them into a wreck.

  “His hero’s Fats Domino.”

  “So?”

  “For somebody who’s planning to be a scientist…,” Clay teased. “Fats … Chubby; Domino … Checker. Get it?”

  “So where’d you learn that? I thought you were born yesterday.”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “You heard it first on KOMA and the Ricky Dare Show—here’s Gene Pitney with ‘The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance,’ from the new movie starring John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart.”

  Mike was still talking, but Clay shushed him and hung on every word through the whole song. “New song, new movie!” he yelled when it was over.

  “You sure are nuts for Westerns,” Mike commented, acknowledging Clay’s big moment. “Haven’t you heard that Westerns are going out of style?”

  “Sure,” Clay scoffed. “Never happen and you know it. I wonder who the song’s talking about, who was the bravest of them all? John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart? Probably John Wayne, that’s what I think. I sure would like to see that movie.”

  “Horse operas …”

  “Big doings Saturday night at the fabulous Black Mountain Playhouse in Red River, New Mex-i-co. Music by the Roadhogs—don’t miss it! And don’t forget you heard it right here on KOMA, coming your way out of Ok-la-homa City, Ok-la-homa!”

  “Red River,” Mike reflected. A sudden awareness came to his face and he said with a sly smile, “Maybe Marilyn will be there.”

  Clay felt a pang of hurt and surprise. Why was Mike going to bug him about Marilyn again?

  “I’m not kidding, Clay! Her folks told me they were going next to Red River, New Mexico, to stay for a couple of days before they go home. They said they always go there—it’s up in the mountains or something. So where’s Red River? Check the map, pick up your jaw, and put on your dancin’ shoes! Black Mountain Playhouse, Red River, New Mex-i-co.”

  “Checking …” Clay fumbled with the map.

  “Anywhere near Gallup or Grants? Maybe Uncle Clay will turn up at the Black Mountain Playhouse, in the band or something.”

  “Found it. Red River’s north of Santa Fe.”

  “Sounds good to me. Can we make it by tomorrow night?”

  “I think we can do it … and still go over to Bluewater on the way, see if anybody there has any leads on Uncle Clay.”

  “On the back of the map—read me the population of Red River.”

  The best part was, Mike was coming out of his daze and thinking about what was ahead of him instead of what was behind. “Here it is. Five hundred fifty people.”

  “See? If she’s not at the dance, you’ll bump into her on the street.”

  He didn’t want to talk about it. He felt too good and too sick to speak. Maybe he really would see her again!

  They pulled off Route 66 somewhere near the Arizona—New Mexico state line onto a dirt track and found a little clearing for the night a quarter mile back among the yucca and cactus. The tailgate of the pickup served as their kitchen table. “What’s for supper?” Mike asked enthusiastically.

  “Chicken dinner,” Clay beamed, and produced a tall can with a label picturing its contents.

  “A whole chicken. I see. What goes with it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s precooked. You want to heat it up on a stick?”

  “I’m hungry. Let’s just eat it.”

  Clay was dismayed to find it looked so awful, with big globs of jellied fat adhering to it.

  Mike pulled off a drumstick. “The bones have turned to rubber, like the whole thing’s been soaked in formaldehyde.” He ate the drumstick. “Well, I did ask you to take care of some food for the road. Clay, this is the best cold and greasy canned whole chicken I’ve had in my life.”

  Afterward they lay in their bags on their backs and watched the stars a long time without speaking. Mike wasn’t going to say anything. Clay knew he must be missing Sheila really bad, going over the breakup and regretting. It was his job to keep his brother’s mind off his ex-girlfriend or girlfriend or whatever she was, and on the Big Wander. “Mike,” he asked tentatively, “do you think we’ll really put a man on the moon before this decade is out, like President Kennedy said?”

  “Possible,” Mike murmured.

  “Do you think we’ll find Uncle Clay?”

  “Possible.”

  “Do you think he still wears that big buckle, the one he won for being All-Around Cowboy?”

  “Possible.”

  “Do you think you’ll let me drive tomorrow?”

  “Im-possible.”

  Clay smiled to himself. He loved it when things were going like this, more like they used to be before Sheila. Just him and Mike, off on their own together. “Mike”—he nudged him in the ribs—“you know that singer Don Ho?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What if he named his son Westward?”

  Clay couldn’t see Mike’s face, but he knew there had to be a smile on it.

  “Or Tally or Gung,” Mike suggested. “Maybe Heidi for a girl. Heidi Ho.”

  “How about Land? I’d like that for
a name. Land Lancaster.”

  “Possible, but not Land Ho. Good night, Clay.”

  “Good night, Mike. Thanks for everything.”

  “I haven’t done anything. Well, maybe I let you talk me into this Big Wander of yours. That was some dinner you set out….”

  Clay let his brother drift off, and then he balled up his jacket for a pillow and took in with deep satisfaction the faraway whistle from the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, and the sage smell of the dry desert air. It was altogether different from the deep woods scent of western Washington. He always felt hemmed in by the woods; he preferred the sea. This desert was like a dry ocean, big and open, with a big sky and shapes enchanting in the far off. It was pleasant waiting for shooting stars and listening to the cicadas drill their shrill signal into the night, half expecting a sidewinder to slither across your bedroll. And it all lay in front of him, this summer and these landscapes from another world, rolling into it with his big brother and eating out of tin cans.

  4

  “Fifty miles to Bluewater, New Mexico,” Clay announced as Mike fished the truck key out of his pocket. “Maybe Uncle Clay’s still around there somewhere.”

  “Tell me again about when he called,” Mike said as he pulled back onto the highway. He turned off the radio, which was spitting static as always in the mornings. “Maybe you’ll come up with something better than ‘Restaurant Hay.’ Just try to remember.”

  “I’ve been trying, believe me. The connection was terrible; at least I couldn’t hear a thing. He was surprised it was me—he thought it was you. He said I sounded a lot older.”

  “Well, we haven’t heard from him in two years.”

  “He asked about Mom, probably he asked to talk to Mom. I thought since I couldn’t hear him, the best thing to do was to tell him all I could, so I told him how she’d just left for Guatemala.”

  “What else did you tell him?”

  “Oh, you know, how she got all fired up about Amigos. I said she was going to be giving used eyeglasses to people with bad eyes, and all that stuff. I told him they didn’t have any telephones where she was going, so he couldn’t call her there. I told him she wouldn’t be back until the end of August.”

  “But what about him? Nothing about what he’s been doing? Just that he was calling from some place called ‘Restaurant Hay’?”

  “It only sounded like that. Mike, you wouldn’t believe how hard it was to hear. It sounded like he was calling from Timbuktu.”

  “Come on now, you’ve looked over that map a hundred times. There isn’t any town named that. You’re going to have to try harder.”

  “Really, Mike, that’s what it sounded like.”

  “Are you more sure of the ‘restaurant’ part or the ‘hay’ part?”

  “The ‘hay’ part.”

  “He didn’t mention the name of the state….”

  “Probably he did, but I didn’t hear it.”

  “Did you ever ask him to repeat the name of the town or the state?”

  Clay didn’t answer.

  “I just can’t believe, after we hadn’t heard from him for so long …”

  Clay’s stomach was in knots. Mike didn’t understand, he’d had this same conversation with himself a hundred times already. If only—“Wait, Mike. I remember something else. Something about horses.”

  “Well, that’s better. What was it all about?”

  “That’s all I can remember—something about horses.”

  “Say, that’s a surprise. A guy who’s been in rodeo half his life mentioning something about horses. But then again, it gives us something to go on. Every time we see somebody with a horse, we can show him one of those pictures in your pocket.”

  * * * The foreman at the Bluewater mill told them Uncle Clay had taken off to do some uranium prospecting. “Your uncle didn’t take to punching the clock and working for wages. He got himself that pack burro and started prospecting. Moved on pretty quick as I recall. He was heading for Moab, Utah. Lots of uranium discoveries up there.”

  Clay asked, “You’re sure it was Moab?”

  “He wasn’t around long, but you’re curious about what a man who’s enjoyed some fame will do when he’s out of the money. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he knew what to do with himself. He was starting all over in life.”

  “On to Moab,” Clay said cheerfully as he got back into the truck. “See, Mike? We’re hot on his trail.”

  “Via Red River, New Mexico. Don’t forget about that. What’s the name of that band they keep talking about—Polly and the Wogs?”

  “The Roadhogs.”

  “Say, Clay, did you hear the one about the horse that decided he was fed up with the same old menu out at the barn?”

  “No …,” Clay replied suspiciously.

  His brother had a huge satisfied smile on his face. “Well, he decided he’d go into town and treat himself at a fancy eatin’ place. And what do you guess he ordered?”

  “What?”

  “Restaurant hay!”

  The Studebaker’s old motor wasn’t hitting on all six cylinders. The truck felt like a bucking horse as they climbed into the mountains in the dark, into the pines and spruce trees and cool mountain air. One headlight was blinking in and out, but they made it to Red River, all excited because they’d been pushing for Red River most of the day and here they were.

  Was she here too? Clay wondered. Was Marilyn here?

  The Black Mountain Playhouse wasn’t hard to find. The music had already started, and they could hear it coming from down by the river. Their momentum carried them right to the big hall made of enormous logs.

  A dozen kids were waiting in line, but nobody could get in until some people inside left. “It’s packed in there,” Clay heard someone say. “It’s because of KOMA. There’s people here from all over.”

  They bought their tickets and waited in line. The band was playing good stuff, mostly right off the radio: “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” “Good Luck Charm,” “Duke of Earl.”

  At last they were next and you could see into the dance floor. “These Roadhogs are pretty good,” Mike was saying. “Hey, Clay Pigeon, there’s just as many girls here as there are guys. Tonight I want to see you make your big move.”

  “Yeah, sure, Mike,” Clay mumbled. He kept wondering if Marilyn might actually be inside.

  “Okay,” the guy taking tickets said. Mike went on in, and Clay looked in one hand and then the other for his ticket stub.

  He checked again. Clay started to fish in his pockets when he realized what had happened to his ticket. He’d been chewing on it. He’d absentmindedly stuck it in his mouth and turned it into a wet ball, like a spitwad.

  “Hey, get a move on,” the guy behind him said, a guy with a greased-back ducktail.

  “Really, I had one.”

  The ticket-taker acted like he was a giant pain but let him go over and buy another one, then let him in.

  Mike was waiting just inside the dance. “What’s been keeping you? Marilyn?”

  Some things you just don’t tell your brother. Like how could you tell him you got so excited you ate your ticket?

  Mike was looking around, and then he just up and asked a girl to dance. A slow dance—“Stranger on the Shore.” Then a fast one with a different girl. Mike made it look so easy, but that was Mike.

  To Clay’s surprise he saw Mike thanking the girl after “Hey Baby” and coming back over. Mike didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t hard to tell he wasn’t feeling as good as he’d been on his way to Red River now that he was here. Sheila? Clay wondered. He’s missing Sheila?

  Mike pointed out a girl and tried to make him go ask her to dance, but he wouldn’t. Not that way, not with your big brother pushing you. And besides, as soon as he did they’d play a slow one, he was sure of it. Slow dancing was torture, plain and simple.

  “I think I’ll go play the pinball machines,” he said.

  Mike shrugged. “I’ll see you around. I’m gonna go make
a phone call.”

  Clay played the pinball machines a long time, but he wasn’t any good. He couldn’t concentrate. He kept watching the door. It was getting late. The dance had to be about over. The music was so loud and he felt so lonely.

  When he glanced back, there she was. Marilyn. Standing just inside the door with her brother, looking out across the dance floor toward the bandstand. The Roadhogs were starting into “The Peppermint Twist.” He could dance to that!

  He fairly flew down the arcade and up to her and said, “Hi Marilyn.” The surprise in her face was perfect. “You wanna dance?”

  The music was so loud, she probably didn’t even hear what he said, but she understood. In a second they were out there dancing. The Twist was so easy. You just make like you’re putting out a cigarette on the floor. Lead with one leg, keep putting that cigarette out, keep your weight on that foot, then shift to the other one. Unlike with those slow dances, you never have to worry about stepping on her feet. You just keep drying the small of your back with that imaginary beach towel. Hips going all the time, forward, back, up, down … hey, she was having a good time too, and her smile, well, she made you feel like the sun was shining on you alone.

  “How did you—,” she asked breathlessly when the music stopped. “Were you just coming here? That was way back in Arizona where we met you!”

  “We heard about the dance on KOMA. My brother thought it’d be fun. He heard your father say you were going to Red River. We just took a chance.”

  She smiled. “Dad said your mother is in Guatemala for the summer. Is that true?”

  “Sure is.”

  “What about your dad? Is he there too?”

  “My father died a long time ago, in the Korean War. ”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Last dance,” the band was saying, and the music began soft and slow as the lights went way down. Clay recognized the song—“Sealed with a Kiss.” A slow one, way too slow! What was he going to do now!

  She seemed to be waiting for him, and she was swaying a little with the music. Everyone else on the floor was starting to dance. It’s now or never, he thought. His hands barely seemed to belong to him as one met her hand and the other closed behind the small of her back.