The Walk Page 11

  The kitchen was small, crowded with a microwave oven, a small laminate table with two chrome-back chairs, a small refrigerator, an electric fan, and a porcelain sink with two pink fuzzy dice hanging from the ceiling above it. The bathroom had a shower bath with plastic shower curtains printed with pictures of silhouetted girls in poodle skirts.

  “This is perfect,” I said. I laid my pack against the front wall. “I’ll take it.”

  “Don’t you want to see the Western bungalow?”

  “No, you said this is your favorite. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Here’s your key.” She walked to the front door. “I work until seven tonight, so if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. Have a nice stay.”

  She stepped outside, and I shut the door behind her.

  The first thing I did was dump the contents of my backpack in a pile on the floor of the front room. Everything I had was filthy, damp, and smelled. I filled the tub with hot water, then dropped in all my clothes, including the ones I was wearing. I kneeled down and hand washed them all with shampoo. The water turned the color of weak coffee. When I had washed everything, I emptied the water from the tub then refilled it with fresh, scalding hot water and let my clothes soak. I wrapped a towel around myself, then opened the front door and shook out my pack, emptying it of crumbs, trail mix, and dirt.

  I went back to the tub, unstopped the drain, and, piece by piece, pulled my clothes from the water, wrung them out by hand, then hung them to dry over whatever I could find: chair backs, the sofa, towel bars, the bed’s headboard. I hung the clothes I needed first in the kitchen next to the fan. I considered putting my cargo pants in the microwave to dry them but decided against it. The last thing I needed was a fire.

  I got a fresh razor from my hygiene bag, then went back to the bathroom. I turned on the shower until steam rose, then I climbed in myself, pulling the shower curtain closed. The sensation was remarkably luxurious, standing there, the hot water coursing over my body, a stream of dirty water running to the drain. I lathered soap over my face and neck and shaved. Then I scrubbed myself with soap and a washcloth.

  When my body was clean, I plugged the drain, then ran the water until the tub was full, and lay back in it, placing the washcloth over my eyes. I lay there for nearly an hour, relaxing my sore muscles and joints, as well as my mind. When I finally emerged, I felt new again.

  I dried myself off, then checked the clothes I’d hung by the fan. They were mostly dry, except my pants waistband, which I took a hair dryer to.

  After I was dressed, I walked back to the diner to get some lunch. It was around two and the diner was busy. Ally was up front and smiled when she saw me. “How’s your room?”

  “It’s good. I took a bath.”

  “That’s always a good thing. Looks like you shaved as well. Here, come sit over here.” She led me to a booth up front and handed me a menu from the table. “Do you know what you want, or do you need a minute?”

  I looked over the menu. “What’s this Elvis Burger?”

  “It’s like a normal hamburger except with peanut butter and banana.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I am. It’s just . . . meaty. I think it’s like a half pound of beef—and it comes with fries and a big dill pickle.”

  “Meaty is good. How about that and some of your world famous blueberry cobbler.”

  “Very good choice. Anything to drink?”

  “Just water.”

  “Water it is.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she brought back my food. There was also a large plate of French fries. “That’s on me.” She touched my shoulder. “Just holler if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks.” As I ate, the diner was besieged by a busload of Amazon, sport uniform–wearing women. They looked like a volleyball team. Ally hopped from table to table like a bee on an azalea bush. I finished eating, then just sat and waited for her return. I was perfectly content to be in no hurry. Finally, Ally came over with my check. “Sorry that took so long. Those buses pull up, and Katie bar the

  door.”

  I laughed at the idiom. “No worries. You earn your salary.”

  “Salary nothing. I live on tips. And these college kids are notoriously bad tippers. Last week someone left me a golf ball. Would you like anything else?”

  “Yes.” I took some money out of my wallet and put it with my check, sure to leave a generous tip. “I want to ask you something.”

  She looked at me curiously. “All right.”

  “Why did you ask if I was okay?”

  Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know. I just felt like something was wrong. Was I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She looked at me thoughtfully. Then she said, “I get off around seven. If you’re not too busy, I’ll bring dinner to your bungalow, and we can talk.” Then she added, “It’s okay if you want to be left alone, I understand. But if you’d like some company . . .”

  “I’d like some company,” I said.

  “Then I’ll come by around seven. Sometimes I’m a little later. It depends on how busy we are.” She lifted the check. “Pray for no buses.”

  “I’ll do that. Keep the change,” I said.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, then walked back to the kitchen.

  I went back to the bungalow. I checked my clothes. They were all still damp, so I turned the thermostat up five degrees. I took out my road diary and wrote a little, then laid back on the bed and watched the ceiling fan slowly turn until I fell asleep.

  The room was dark when I woke to knocking. I sat up and looked around, momentarily forgetting where I was. There came another knock. I turned on a lamp, then walked to the door and opened it. Ally stood outside, clutching two paper sacks in one hand and holding two malts against her body. She had changed from her waitress outfit and wore a form-fitting sweater and jeans.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No, I was just . . .” I grinned. “I was sleeping. Come in.”

  “Thank you.” She walked directly to the kitchen, talking to me as she did. “I brought some sandwiches—our Spanky’s Clubhouse, that’s a triple decker with turkey, ham, bacon, cheese, and the meatloaf sandwich. Dan makes great meatloaf. You can take either sandwich. I also brought a taco baked potato, a basket of onion rings, and, of course, our world-famous chocolate-chocolate malt with extra malt.”

  She set the sacks on the kitchen table and put the malts in the refrigerator. “Are you ready to eat?”

  “Yes . . . ,” I said looking at the white briefs draped over the back of the kitchen chairs, “but I should probably get rid of these.”

  She smiled. “Not on my account . . .”

  I gathered up my underwear, then pulled out one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  I threw my underwear on the bed, then came back and sat down next to her at the table.

  “At least now I won’t have to ask boxers or briefs,” she said.

  “I’m glad we got that out of the way,” I said.

  She took the food from the sacks and laid it out across the table.

  “You brought enough for a small village.”

  “We don’t have to eat it all,” she said, arranging metal utensils in front of me with the efficiency of a waitress. “I hate eating with plastic utensils,” she said. “How about we share the sandwiches?”

  “I’m good with that.”

  She had already cut the sandwiches in half and she handed me one of each. They were both good. “So, you did your wash.”

  “Yeah, I just hope everything dries before I have to leave. I thought of drying things in the microwave.”

  This made her smile. “Bad idea,” she said. “So, the room’s okay?”

  “It’s the Four Seasons compared to where I slept last night.”

/>   “And where was that?”

  “About 5 miles up the mountain. I found these little shacks.”

  She said with food still in her mouth, “I know what you’re talking about. There are four or five of them. One of them fell over.”

  “That’s them.”

  “In the summer the teenagers around here go up there to party.”

  I took a bite of the meatloaf sandwich. “So you’re from here?”

  “No. I’m from Dallas.”

  “How does one go from Dallas to the 59er Diner?”

  “I had a boyfriend who moved here to refurbish his aunt’s cabin, and I followed him.” She frowned. “Then he ran off with someone else.”

  “And left you here?”

  “It’s not like I’m chained here. I like it. At least for now. No one stays here forever. Except Dan.”

  “Who’s Dan?”

  “He owns the diner.” She dipped an onion ring in ketchup. “You have beautiful eyes,” she said. “Sad, but beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Where are you from?”

  “Seattle, most recently.”

  She took a bite. “And less recently?”

  “I was born in Colorado, raised in Pasadena.”

  “I spent a summer in Boulder, Colorado. I did a lot of hiking. It was fun. How long have you been on the road?”

  “Not long. Five, six days.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Away.”

  She nodded. “That’s a little . . . vague.”

  “When I left Bellevue, I decided to walk as far away as I could on the continent, which happens to be Key West, Florida.”

  “You’re walking to Key West?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. How many miles is that?”

  “Three thousand something.”

  She thought this over. “I admire you. I think most people dream of doing something like that but never do. Life has too many shackles. So how does one just leave everything like that? You must have had a job, friends, family.”

  “I did.”

  “You mean until you left?”

  “No, you might say they left me.”

  She nodded as if she suddenly understood. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  To my surprise I did. “Classic riches to rags story. I had the perfect life. And in less than six weeks it was gone.”

  “So what did you do in that perfect life?”

  “I owned a Seattle advertising agency.” My voice softened, “Actually, money was only a small part of it. One day my wife was thrown from a horse. She was paralyzed from the chest down. Then a month later, she died from complications. While I was taking care of her, my business partner stole my agency, and my home went into foreclosure. I lost everything. That’s when I decided to walk away.”

  “You stayed with your wife through it all.”

  I nodded. “Of course.”

  “That’s really cool. I’m sorry about your wife. That must be so painful.” I nodded. “And I’m sorry about your scum-bag business partner. There’s a special place in hell for people like him.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  We ate in silence, letting the intensity of our conversation settle. She looked at my nearly empty plate. “Would you like your malt?”

  “Sure.”

  She retrieved both cups from the refrigerator, then returned to her seat, setting a cup in front of me. “There’s one upside to your adventure. With all that walking, you can probably eat whatever you want.”

  “I figure I burn about five thousand calories a day. Probably the same amount of calories this world-famous

  malt has.”

  She grinned. “I made this one myself. It’s worth it.

  Trust me.”

  I lifted a spoon. “So how long do you plan to live here?”

  “I actually don’t live here, I live down the road in Peshastin. But, I don’t know. Another year or two. I guess I’m just waiting.”

  “For what?”

  She shrugged. “A better offer.” She ate another spoonful of malt, then said, “How about you? Leaving in the morning?”

  “I plan on it. What’s the next big town?”

  “It’s still Leavenworth, just the city center. About 20 miles on. Have you ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “You would remember if you had. It’s a tourist attraction.”

  “What kind of attraction?”

  “Leavenworth used to be a logging town. But when the sawmill shut down, the town almost died. Then someone had this idea to turn the town into a Bavarian hamlet.”

  “A what?”

  “A Bavarian hamlet. A little slice of Germany in the middle of Washington. Now you can’t sneeze if it’s not in German. They claim to have the largest Oktoberfest celebration outside Munich. Too bad, you just missed it.”

  “Poor timing,” I said, glad that I had missed it.

  “At any rate, their plan worked. Today the town attracts millions of visitors a year. They have a city center, parks, and—point of interest—the world’s largest nutcracker museum. It has, like, five thousand different nutcrackers.”

  “I’ll have to check it out,” I said.

  “I’m sure you will,” she said facetiously. “You know, it’s kind of ironic, but if everything hadn’t gone wrong with the town, they wouldn’t be as well off as they are today. It just goes to show you that not all bad things are really bad.” She took another spoonful of her malt. “You must be tired from all that walking.”

  “A little. Climbing Stevens Pass in the snow wasn’t easy.”

  “I bet. How are your feet?”

  “Sore.”

  “Come here.” She stood, took my hand, and led me to the sofa. “Sit,” she said. I sat down, and she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of me and untied my

  shoes.

  “You sure you want to do that?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  “I won’t stop you.”

  She pulled off my shoes, then began to gently knead my feet.

  “Tell me if I’m doing it too hard or too soft.”

  “It’s just right,” I said.

  For several moments, we both sat in silence. I couldn’t believe how good it felt to be touched. I laid my head back and closed my eyes.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  “I just did.”

  “That was your former self. No one goes through all you went through without changing.”

  I opened my eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  “The real stuff. Like, what are you going to do when you reach Key West?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe just keep walking into the sea.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “What else do you want to know?”

  She thought for a moment. “Do you believe in God?”

  “There’s a question,” I said.

  “Does it have an answer?”

  “Let’s just say I’m much too angry at Him not to.”

  “You blame God for what happened to you?”

  “Maybe. Probably.”

  She frowned, and I could tell that what I said had bothered her. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t. I just wonder why it is that we blame God for everything except the good. Did you blame Him for giving her to you in the first place? How many people go their whole lives and never get to experience that kind of love?”

  I looked down.

  “I’m not saying that you don’t have the right to be angry. Life is tough.” From her tone, I could tell there was more to what she said than she let on. I remembered her scars.

  “Do you mind me asking what happened to your wrist?”

  She stopped rubbing my feet. She looked down for a moment, and when she looked back up at me, there was strength in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. “Well, like I said,” she said softly, “l
ife is tough.

  “My stepfather sexually abused me from the age of seven until I was twelve, when I decided the only way out was to slit my wrist. I didn’t know how to do it right, so I mostly just bled a lot while a neighbor girl called 911.

  “At the hospital, a social worker got out of me why I had cut myself. My stepfather ended up going to prison for seven years. My mother blamed me for the whole situation. She accused me of seducing him, and she disowned me. So, at the age of thirteen, I was sent to the first of many foster homes. At fifteen, I ran away from my sixth foster placement with my nineteen-year-old boyfriend, who one day got tired of me and left.

  “I lived on the streets of Dallas for almost a year until I was caught shoplifting at a Walmart and was sent to the Dallas County Juvenile Detention Center for three months.

  “That’s where I met Leah. Leah wasn’t a juvie, she was older. She was one of the community volunteers. She became my friend and mentor. When I got out, she wanted me to go live with her, but I only promised to stay one week. But she was so good to me, I kept adding weeks.” She smiled slightly in fond recollection. “I stayed with her until I was twenty and left for college.”

  She pulled back her sleeve exposing the two thick scars on her wrist. “It’s odd but I’m grateful for them now. They’re my reminders.”

  “Of what?”

  She looked up into my eyes. “To live.”

  I thought over what she’d said. “When McKale died, I almost took my life. I had pills.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “A voice.” I felt odd saying it, but she didn’t seem at all skeptical.

  “What did the voice say?”

  “It told me that life wasn’t mine to take.” I rubbed my chin. “Just before she died, McKale asked me to promise her that I would live.”

  She nodded. “I think we all have to make that choice. I meet dead people every day at the diner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People who have given up. That’s all death requires of us, to give up living.”

  I wondered if I was one of them.

  “The thing is, the only real sign of life is growth. And growth requires pain. So to choose life is to accept pain. Some people go to such lengths to avoid pain that they give up on life. They bury their hearts, or they drug or drink themselves numb until they don’t feel anything anymore. The irony is, in the end their escape becomes more painful than what they’re avoiding.”