Dakota Blues (16 page)

A burned-out homestead disappeared in the rear-view mirror, the structure abandoned as if the land had no potential and no value. To Karen, long used to the wall-to-wall crowding of cities, this abandonment defied logic, until one looked around at the vast expanse of grassland. Going about her days back home, she had assumed America would soon be filled with houses, airports, and shopping malls but today’s travel along the western edge of South Dakota dispelled that notion. This land would never be developed. There was simply too much of it.

It was no wonder these uninhabited acres had called out to oppressed Europeans in the last century. They crossed the Atlantic in steerage, landed in New York, and packed aboard trains that chugged farther and farther away from the cities to remote train stations, little more than wood platforms in the middle of the prairie. From there, they continued by covered wagon until an axle broke, the oxen dropped, or winter caught up with them. Then they drove their stakes and made the best of it.

Karen felt privileged to be rolling along solid blacktop in her gasoline-powered, self-contained schooner. Now and then she noticed a clump of scraggly trees, so rare, it was clear they were planted by someone who had tried and failed to muscle the land into submission.

Occasionally they passed boggy marshland carpeted with purple lilies and yellow mustard plants. Pronghorn grazed next to fat, sleek horses, not at all like the horses she passed in dirt lots in the more rural stretches of southern California. She wished every horse could fill its belly with wild grasses and roll around in clover.

The horizon was bounded by hills and flat-topped mesas, the land in the foreground eroded with ravines and grassy draws. It made a treacherous path for stampeding herds or the lone rider far from home or help. Once out here, a person would have no choice but to stare existential reality in the face.

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Chapter Twenty

I
n mid-afternoon, the van crested a rise beyond which lay a town, and beyond that, the Black Hills of South Dakota where their evening campsite waited.

Frieda awoke when she felt the van slow. “Is this Belle Fourche already?” She pronounced it ‘bell foosh.’

“Almost.” The highway brought them into town past a wrought-iron cemetery, over train tracks, past a granary, and over the river. A once-critical frontier outpost of sheep and cattle yards at the confluence of three rivers, Belle Fourche stood at the dead center of the contiguous U.S.

They merged with a procession of rumbling, hissing eighteen-wheelers and ranch trucks, their big duelies caked with mud. The road broadened to four lanes and carried them at shopping speed past the Dairy Queen, a package liquor store, and Black HillsTractor. Outside a Pizza Hut, a couple of cowboys wore spurs on their boots and numbers pinned on the backs of their shirts, identifying them as rodeo riders. City hall, a humble one-story, stood on a lawn surrounded by gnarled oaks and cottonwood trees. Their cotton-fluff drifted onto the windshield like snow.

Outside town, the highway began to climb toward the Black Hills. The van handled the grade easily, and within the hour, Karen was inhaling the crisp fragrance of pine. The forested mountains, a novelty after the flatness of North Dakota, sheltered the old frontier town of Deadwood. The van crawled along Main Street with the flood of summer tourists, past the Holiday Inn and McDonalds lurking behind faux-eighteenth-century facades.

She turned into the parking lot of a small market next to a casino. “We should get some milk and something for dinner. How about burgers?”

“We’ll need more than that. You don’t want to go hungry out on the road.” In the store, Frieda grasped at the handle of a shopping cart and pointed it down an aisle, throwing in boxes of Hamburger Helper and cans of soup.

“You’re buying too much. We’ll be in Denver by tomorrow night.”

“This is how me and Russell always did it.” Frieda turned around, her cheeks lightly flushed, her eyes bright. “Loosen up. We’re on vacation. Hey, I’m going to stick my head in next door. Who knows? Might win a jackpot.” She left Karen to take care of the bill and wobbled out the front door.

Fifteen minutes later, their larder packed to the limit, Frieda returned with a paper cup full of coins and a thumbs-up. “I got lucky. Come on, girl, we’re burnin’ daylight. We need to find a place to stay.” She reached in the door pocket for the battered guide that had seen her and Russell though two decades of camping. “According to this, there are about a half dozen good places right around here. Let’s start at Rock Ridge Resort and keep going until we find one that grabs us.”

Karen put the van in gear. “I already made reservations at Sunset Pines RV Park.”

“But how do you know we’ll like it? It could be a dump.”

“It got good ratings on the internet.”

“You trust that thing?”

Karen pulled out into traffic. No sense trying to teach a ninety-year-old about the greatest tool to come along since the Model-T. A couple of miles up the tree-lined highway, she found the turnoff, a dirt road that jounced the innards of the RV no matter how hard she worked to maneuver around potholes and rocks. When the van hit a bump and one of the overloaded cabinets popped open, she pulled over to check out the mess. Two cardboard boxes had toppled over, spilling their contents all over the floor. It would have to wait.

Frieda chuckled. “That’ll teach you to close ‘em properly.”

“I thought I had.” The cabinets locked automatically to prevent this kind of problem, but Karen must have missed one of them. The sight of the mess in back made her want to open the bottle of Riesling she’d bought at the market. Up ahead, a park employee in a khaki uniform waved them toward the entry kiosk.

“One night,” Karen said, handing the young man a twenty.

Frieda leaned closer. “Probably two.”

They drove through the campground on a meandering lane to their campsite. A large boulder squeezed their narrow parking space.

“You better line it up perfect or you’ll scrape the side,” said Frieda.

“We’ll be fine.”

“It’s going to be tight.”

Karen inched the van forward, almost touching the huge rock.

“Too close.” Frieda leaned forward, peering into her side mirror and blocking Karen’s view. “This’ll never work. You need to turn around and back it in.”

“Please sit back. I can’t see anything with your head in the way.” The fatigue of a full day of driving began to hit her.

“I’ll guide you.” Frieda got out and left the door open. Karen had to unbuckle, get out of her seat, and lean way over to close it. Denver couldn’t come soon enough. As soon as she got rid of Frieda, she’d find a luxury hotel for the night. She rested her head against the seat back, eyes closed. What would she give right now for valet parking? She pictured an ice cold lemon drop martini, a hot bath, quiet solitude…tomorrow night, by God.

She heard voices and opened her eyes. A man stood behind the van, speaking with Frieda, who nodded. He pointed at a path into the forest, and Frieda took off.

“What the hell?” Karen rubbed the base of her skull where a headache was blooming. The man approached her window. His heavy cologne scorched her nostrils, and his thick mustache showed white at the roots. “May I help you?”

“I need to back up without hitting that rock.”

“Watch my signals.” He turned and marched toward the back of the van. He wore belted grey dress slacks, and his thin hair was dyed a harsh black and combed over his bald spot. He positioned himself in her side mirror and guided her with military precision.

When Karen felt the back tires nudge up against a fallen log, she gave the man a wave and turned off the motor. From the glove box she reached for the manual, which included an arrival checklist. As she recalled, there were plugs and hoses and all kinds of things she needed to extract from their compartments. At the back of the van she found her helper waiting by the locked equipment cabinet.

He rapped one knuckle against its door. “You should have a level in here. If it isn’t level, your refrigerator won’t work.”

“I think it’s in the galley.” Karen opened the double doors and stepped into the van, rustling through a couple of drawers and the cabinet over the sink, where she found the level.

The man peered into the vehicle at the mess that had spilled from the cabinets.

Karen followed his glance. Shoving aside photo albums and cutlery, plastic bowls and a scattered pile of embroidered cloth napkins, she cleared a path to the door and handed him the level.

Unsmiling, the man stepped into the galley and centered the level on a countertop, then a wall. When the bubble lined up between the two black lines, he grunted and handed it back to her. “Very good. I’ll connect the electrical. I suggest you secure the freshwater intake. Be sure to bleach the spigot.” At her blank look, he explained. “You don’t know if a dog used it last.”

She dug around under the sink and found a small bottle of bleach.

“Good. Dilute it by half and saturate the spigot, then rinse.” He saw her thumbing through the user manual and frowned. “The white hose.”

“Right.” She lugged it out of the compartment and attached it to the clean spigot while the man attached the cord for shore power. He showed her how to lock the fresh water hose to prevent tampering and chocked the tires with rocks. “You wouldn’t want your vehicle rolling downhill in the middle of the night.”

“I really appreciate your help. By the way, I’m Karen.”

“Wallace Franklin.” His handshake was firm and icy. “Are you and your mother traveling alone?”

“She’s not my mother. Thanks again for the help.”

Just then Frieda limped out of the forest leading a slender, elegant woman. “Hey Karen, look who I found. This is Mae. She’s from next door.”

The woman smiled, her blue eyes lighting up a pale, delicate face. Her white-blond hair was swept up into a graceful chignon, and she wore light wool slacks and a silk blouse. “I see you found my husband. Frieda tells me you have no plans for dinner,” said Mae. “Please join us this evening. We would love to have your company.” She glanced at Wallace. “Isn’t that right, Wall?”

Wallace stared at his wife, who dropped her eyes.

“We don’t want to inconvenience–” Karen began.

“Dinner sounds lovely,” said Frieda. “What time?”

“We eat at six.” He turned and disappeared into the trees. Mae gave a little wave and trotted after him.

“Great,” Karen muttered.

“What’s bugging you?” Frieda sat on the edge of the picnic table bench, her cane planted in front of her.

“I’m tired. I was looking forward to an early night.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll have dinner, visit a little, and come back.”

“Wallace doesn’t want us there,” said Karen.

“Who cares? He’s the entertainment.”

Karen unlocked a storage compartment and withdrew a roll of outdoor carpet and two camp chairs. She unfurled the carpet just outside the double doors of the van, arranged the chairs, and opened the awning. Then she went back inside to finish straightening.

“This is the life,” said Frieda. “Smell that fresh air?”

Inside, Karen sat down on the dinette bench to take stock of the project. The van was strewn with housewares, clothing and collectibles. She’d have to figure out a better way to store everything.

“Russell and I had a rule,” said Frieda. “You only bring it if you can’t live without it. We limited ourselves to a few clothes, food, and a book. I don’t know what he’d say if he saw your mess.”

“Can I get you a book or something? Magazine?”

“I can take a hint. You go ahead and clean up. I’ll watch the birds.”

Karen slid a photo album into a box under the dinette and bent down to pick up her mother’s wooden poppy seed grinder. Luckily it was undamaged. She rewrapped it in one of the old towels Marie had donated and tucked it into a cabinet underneath a big frying pan. As she worked she found that most of the small antiques were intact, but the counter top had been chipped by a flying potato ricer. The cups and silverware went into the sink for another cleaning. Clothes were tossed on the dinette table for further processing.

Karen straightened up, her lower back aching. The place was looking a lot better already and her mood began to improve until her stomach growled and she remembered where they’d be having dinner. At least somebody else would be doing the cooking.

While she debated her next move, her cell phone rang. Karen slid into the dinette. “Hey, Stacey, how the heck are you?”

“So are you having a mid-life crisis and never coming back?”

“I’m wandering around South Dakota with a crazy old lady. How are things in the real world? Did they fill my old job yet?”

“They’re not even advertising,” said Stacey.

“Who’s doing the work? You and Peggy?”

“Peggy quit.”

“What? What happened?” A blue jay hopped into the van through the open doors. When it saw Karen, it raised its wings in warning.

“She was in the break room when Wes came in and started being all condescending and everything. You know how he does, making you look bad in front of everybody. And Peggy flipped out. She threw her coffee at him. You should have seen it.”

“Was it hot?”

“Hell yeah! I think he screamed. Then Peggy went back to her office, threw her stuff in a box, and walked out. She smiled and waved all the way out to the parking lot.”

“I have to call her.”

“Tell her hi from all of us. Peggy’s our new hero.” Stacey covered the phone to speak with a coworker, then came back, her voice lowered. “Hey, listen. Atlas over in Costa Mesa is looking for an HR person. It would be perfect for you and the money’s good.”

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll look into it. Let’s have lunch in a couple weeks.” Karen hung up and dialed Peggy. “So, you’re free, huh?”

“As a bird.”

“You’re not depressed or anything?”

“If I ever get depressed I’ll call up the look on Wes’ face when he saw that coffee coming at him,” said Peggy. “I should have quit years ago, but I thought I was so all-fired important. What a joke. Wes and the rest of that bunch took advantage of me.”