Road to Paradise (45 page)

“She took Floyd’s $1000 from me,” said Candy.

Gina and I both emitted a groan of compassion. We remembered too well what it took to get that money.

“I’d take an atheist over this kind of Christian any day,” said Gina, her hands in a knot, her mouth so tight she couldn’t chew properly, and kept choking and coughing. “I’d take a Mormon, a Muslim …”

“A Mennonite,” I finished in agreement.

“Anything!”

“What does this have to do with being a Christian?” asked Candy. “Why do you always keep harping on that? What do you think, she read the Gospel of St. Matthew and said, I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to rob three girls who are helping me out, because that’s what the good Lord would have me do?”

“I really don’t know, Candy,” said Gina. “
You’re
the one with all the answers.”

“I guarantee you, this broad was not thinking about Jesus as she was stealing money from my bag.”

“I’m beginning to understand,” said Gina, “why the Romans fed the Christians to the lions. They were losing their empire through embezzlement. They needed to do something to save themselves.”

“Didn’t do such a good job saving themselves,” retorted Candy. “Despite the lion feedings.”

“Stop it,” I said. “Those two must have planned it well ahead. Maybe back in Ely. Where else? They were always with us otherwise. The kid was told to go to the bathroom and stay there. Mother pulled a little wool over my eyes. Dropped her purse,
rooted around. When her son came out of the bathroom, he went outside, and they disappeared. Must have caught a cab right away. They worked this out good.”

“We got to talking about faith at the bar,” Candy said, “and she heard the thing in my voice, the thing that told her I would help her. She knew I’d be easy.” The cold fry fell out of her hands.

“Candy,” I said, “they could’ve planned this thing back in Salt Lake. When they knew they’d be coming with us.”

“No, don’t say that.” Candy put her head in her hands. The blonde of it bobbed up and down. I wanted to comfort her, but who was going to comfort me?

“Maybe the cops will catch them,” said Gina, putting her own head down. We were defeated; felt it, and looked it. “I don’t care what the fat waitress thinks. Let’s call them, Shel. File a report.”

“They took cash, not Traveler’s checks,” said Candy, looking up at us. “The cops are going to have to catch them in another state. Because I’m sure they took our money and split good and proper. Caught a cab, went to the bus depot, are probably halfway to Seattle by now.”

“So the police will catch them in Seattle,” said Gina.

“And in Seattle, that Russian slag will say, what money, officer? I ain’t got a penny. I’m a single mother with a small frail child and I’m broke. Dear God, I’d never take from young girls, what do you take me for?”

I shook my head. “I think they went back to Salt Lake. I bet you they were Mormons.”

Candy disagreed. “When I met her, she was serving drinks wearing a cross. In Salt Lake. She didn’t know a loser like me was coming. You don’t wear a cross in Salt Lake unless you’re not one of them.”

“Well, for all the things she said about the Mormons—
they
didn’t rob us.”

“No.” Candy took one last mealy bite of her burger. “She didn’t rob us because she was a Christian, Gina. She robbed us because she was a bad woman.”

“So you say. I thought your Christ was supposed to make bad people good?”

Candy almost laughed. “How little you understand,” she said, taking her few dollars out. “Let’s go. Let’s find Jess at least.”

We pooled our pennies together, counting out the quarters in the pockets of my jeans. We were young girls, we didn’t carry purses. We had no wallets. We carried the combs to brush our hair in the back of our short denim shorts, and the dollar bills stuffed in our front pockets, with the peach lipgloss, in case we needed to touch up. We had no need for purses; we carried nothing; we lived as if we were still fifteen, about to go rollerblading and flirt with the boys.

After turning out our pockets, we scraped together $22.71. We left it on the table, casting an apologetic glance at Daisy. She just rolled her eyes and waved us off.

In the car, Gina said, “How much gas do we have?”

The tank was empty. Empty, empty, empty.

“Unbefuckinglievable,” Gina exclaimed, as we pulled out and made a left on Virginia. One way or another we had to find this “Motel” or we’d be out of gas and sleeping in the car. We made a left under the neon sign for “Penthouse Dancers” behind a billboard that said, “Jesus: Acts 4:12.”

Acts 4:12?

We were stopped at a light to allow ample time for perusal. Acts 4:12 and the Penthouse Dancers.

“Like a riddle,” said Gina.

“Only for those who don’t know,” said Candy.

“Oh, like you know.”

“Check out Gideon’s Bible when we get to Motel, see for yourself.”

“That would presuppose finding Motel. Which, as you well know, is not a given. So what does it mean, Miss Smarty Pants?” Gina appeared milder. Her stomach was fuller.

“
There is no other name under heaven, given among men
,” said Candy, “
whereby we must be saved
.”

“Huh.” Gina tapped indifferently at her window. “Is that really true? And what a strange sign to hang in Reno of all places.”

Light turned green; we rolled on down Virginia, which got seedier the farther it got away from the classy; gray, stringy, broke old men sitting waiting for the bus having spent their last penny. “You think your little fucking Lena that you invited for a joyride is going to be saved by Jesus?” asked Gina. Perhaps I had overstated the mild. “I wouldn’t want her to. I’d want her to burn in hell. I want to learn voodoo so I can stick needles in her eyes. Tell me you don’t. Tell me you want to turn the other cheek. Turn out your pockets, Candy, give her the film reel, too.”

“Gina,” I said. “Are you watching out for Motel? Because we’re going to miss it with your unending bickering. You’re like a married couple.”

“An unhappily married couple,” retorted Gina. Both of them looked away through the windows. “That fucking Lena,” she said. “How did you find her? How could you not tell she was evil? How did you let a complete stranger into our car?”

“Who are you talking to?” I asked. “Me or Candy?”

Gina turned her head. “I don’t know anymore,” she said, mouth full of sorrow.

Candy’s head beat against the window. “Sloane, don’t drive so fast, we’re going to miss it.”

Why did we give all our money to Daisy? Again, we were making such bad decisions. We had thought with our stomachs, and now we desperately needed gas but had no money. “Did we save even a dollar?” I asked. “One lousy dollar for gas.”

“We got nowhere to go until we get us some money,” said Candy.

“Tomorrow, I’ll call Emma.”

“And I’ll call my mother,” said Gina. “What about you, Candy? Who are you going to call?”

“No one,” said Candy. “But
you’re
going to call your mother?”

“Yes. Why is that so surprising?”

“Well, until just now I wasn’t sure you had a mother. You’ve never mentioned her. Certainly have never called her.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you call on your Jesus? Maybe he’ll give you money.”

“You know what,” said Candy, “I’m going to get my money the old-fashioned way. I’m going to earn it.”

“Good. Maybe money will
save
you.”

We sat staring out the windows.

“Dear God,” I prayed. “Give us a sign. Help us. Tell us what to do.”

“There is no God in Reno,” said Gina, banging on the window, as we passed by a billboard that said, “D
O YOU KNOW WHERE YOU’RE
GOING TO
? John 11:10.”

The sign came first.

“Motel,” it said. It was nearly three miles out from the main strip. “We’re going to be pushing the car down Virginia tomorrow,” I said. “We’re out of gas.”

“That’s okay,” said Gina. “We’re out of money, too.” Oh,
now
levity.

The Motel motel was a drab two-story building with a concrete courtyard, which is where we pulled in, sputtering to a stop. Candy had to knock five minutes before someone in reception opened the front door. After midnight, they figured anybody knocking was coming to rob them. Which right now didn’t seem like the
most
awful idea in the world.

“Is Jess here?” Candy asked.

“Jess who?” yelled a crabby, barely awoken man.

Candy disappeared inside.

“I hope you understand that there is no walking away from this bonafide mess,” Gina said.

Was there walking away before a mother and son robbed us of everything? I didn’t think so. “I’m sorry, Gina.”

“Too late. You can stuff your sorry in a sack, missy. How are we going to pay for this fine lodging establishment?”

Soon Candy came back. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My friend Jessica doesn’t work here anymore. She doesn’t live here anymore. Apparently she sold her car and
moved back east. Back to Huntington. That was three months ago, when I was still in Huntington. Maybe she was going to look me up at Jerry’s Lounge where we used to hang out, but just hadn’t gotten around to it yet.” Candy dangled the keys. “I got us one night. We’re up on the second floor. Sloane, what are you doing?” she said, when she saw me pulling into a beaut of a spot right near the stairs. “Park in the back.” I groaned, I cursed, I banged the window. I parked in the back, in the dark near the bushes.

Room 528. It had two small beds and a sink outside the bathroom. It smelled moldy. Gina and I dropped our stuff and fell down on the beds. I felt my body giving out, surrendering. I kept doing the slow blink. “I’ll call Emma tomorrow,” I said, “but how much is Emma going to be able to send me? A hundred? Two?”

“We don’t need much,” Gina said, kicking off her shoes, trying to crawl under the covers without getting off the bed.

“No? We still have to get back to New York. Gas, food, lodging. A hundred is not going to cut it.”

“It’ll be okay, Sloane,” said Candy. “Gina will be with you.”

Gina shook her head. “Gina will not be with her. Gina is going to Bakersfield, and staying with Eddie. I’m not going back.” She pulled the covers to her head. The AC was working poorly. I thought she’d be hot.

“Gina,” I groaned. I didn’t know how to say it. “Come on. What happened to I’m going to stick it out with you until the end?”

“This is the end, girlfriend,” said Gina, throwing off the blanket. “What about all the things you told me? No hitchhikers. Once, twice. You told me many things. You promised me many things. We wouldn’t be here with our life upside down if you’d kept to any of the things you told
me
.”

“Emma can’t send me enough money to make the trip alone,” I whispered, too exhausted to cry.

“So, work,” said Candy, sitting down on the corner of my bed. “Make a little money.”

“I’m so tired,” Gina said, her eyes closing. She rolled into a ball. “I’ll register for community college in Bakersfield, instead of Geneseo State. We’ll get married. I’ll get my degree in California. I can teach anywhere. As long as I’m close to Eddie, I don’t care what I do.”

“And how am I supposed to make money, Candy?” I asked. “I’ve never waitressed. The only thing I’ve ever done is clean houses.”

Candy laughed. “Perfect. So clean some houses. Go to the guy downstairs, his name is Taibo, and ask him if he needs a maid.” Her eyes twinkled in the broken-bulb dark. “Ask him if he wants you to wear one of those cute little maid outfits. I bet he’ll give you more money if you do.”

That made me sit up on my elbows. “Candy, what are you talking about? How many rooms do you think I’ll need to clean, maid outfit or no before I make enough to drive myself back home?”

Candy fell next to me on the bed, propped up on her side. Gina was drifting off. She had stopped speaking. “Sloane, you’re supposed to be smart. A planner. Why didn’t you bring enough money for the return trip?”

“I did, Candycane, oh, I did,” I said, not fighting the bitterness in my voice. “I planned it all out beautifully. Except things happened I didn’t count on. And, by the way, don’t you think your criticism of me is a little misplaced, considering no matter how much money I’d have brought, it all would’ve been taken by the scavengers you let in my backseat?”

“Shel,” cooed Candy, blinking warmth at me, “don’t you know that a girl, no matter where she is, is never without means to make a buck?”

“What are you talking about?”

And then we were quiet.

I jumped up and went to the bathroom. When I came back, I had to turn away from her before I could lie down next to her, then she spoke again, close to my ear. “Shelby,” she said softly. “You raise your skirt, you get a twenty. You give him a blowjob, thirty. A blowjob with an upskirt, fifty. Ten minutes, and you’ve
got fifty bucks. That’s 300 dollars an hour. Two hundred and fifty if you’re dogging it. What else are you going to do in your young life to make $250 an hour?”

I nearly fell out of bed. “Are you crazy?” I hissed. “You are. You
are
crazy! What are you talking about? I’m not giving a blowjob—to who?”

“To the guy whose rooms you were about to clean for five bucks an hour, plus a dollar tip.”