The Butterfly’s Daughter (28 page)

“Look!” Luz cried, pointing over Stacie's shoulder. “There's an exit. Just take it!”

Stacie pulled off onto what appeared to be the loneliest-looking exit any of them had ever seen. The construction fencing was cracked and dusty, the earth alongside the road was parched, and
there wasn't a tree or blade of green in sight. The breaks squeaked as they came to a stop at the end of the dusty exit ramp.

Luz tightened her hands on the back of the seat, afraid that El Toro was breaking down again. Only this wasn't a big city, it was the middle of tumbleweed nowhere. There were only two buildings as far as she could see. One was a ramshackle gas station with three ancient-looking pumps, and the other a vacant Dairy Queen, its white shingles falling off. The engine rumbled beneath them and for a moment they were silent as they stared out at the desolate scene.

“I think we're in the Twilight Zone,” Margaret said.

“Nah, we're just in Texas,” Stacie said, and shifted into gear. “Girls, I'm singing hallelujah! This gas station might not be much, but it's what's here. I suggest we pull in, unless y'all want to travel down the road a mile or so to where that water tower is. This here's ranch country and the spreads go on for miles.”

“Let's pull in,” Luz said.

Stacie obliged, driving into the Wilbur Less Gas Station. The sign proudly announced:
WHERE LESS IS MORE
.

Stacie pulled up beside a pump and turned off the engine. It rattled a second, then sputtered to silence. Margaret and Luz climbed out from the passenger side with Serena in tow. Stacie pulled lipstick out of her bag and artfully applied a fresh coat of fuchsia, then looked around. Except for a man fueling his pickup truck pulling a U-Haul, the place looked deserted.

“Well, girls,” Margaret said dryly, looking at the broken air pump, the filthy windows of the store, and the hand-painted sign. “I'd say this was a time when Less is not more.”

Stacie stretched her arms over her head. “Nope. For sure, Less is less.”

Luz started laughing. Suddenly the ridiculous all seemed hysterically funny. “You could say he lived
down
to his name.”

Margaret burst out laughing, too, so hard she had to hold on to Luz's shoulder for balance.

Stacie watched the two with a puzzled frown.

Luz finally contained her laughter, feeling a hundred times better for the release. After taking Serena for a quick walk to the brown grass, she went to the dusty hood of the car and pried it open; it let out an angry squeak. She reached out to check the oil and leaped back with a yelp.

“You can't touch it!” Margaret exclaimed. “You need a rag or something. Stacie, could you grab some of those paper towels?”

Using the paper, Luz was successful in pulling out the burning-hot dipstick while the other two women watched. Thanks to Sully, she'd learned how to do this.
Someday you'll get stranded and I won't be there to help,
he'd told her, and it turned out he was right. Pulling out the dipstick, Luz saw that the oil was pretty much gone. She mentally kicked herself for traveling so far without checking.

“It's dry as a bone. We need oil,” she told the girls.

“Well, that doesn't sound so bad,” Stacie said. “I mean, we can fix that, right?”

“Right.” Luz went to the glove compartment and pulled out the now torn and scrunched-up papers. Biting her tongue so she wouldn't say anything and get them all riled again, she pulled out the sheet of Sully's instructions.

“Wait here,” she told them, giving Margaret the leash. “I'll go in and buy some oil.”

“I'll go with you. It's my turn to pay,” Margaret said, handing the leash to Stacie.

Inside the station everything looked old, including the thin, grizzled, gray-haired man behind the counter. He sat far back in his chair with his yellowed straw hat down low over his eyes. Luz wasn't sure he was awake until she stepped to the counter. He reached up to push back his hat, revealing rheumy blue eyes rimmed in red.

“Yeah?” he asked in greeting.

“Hi,” Luz said. “I need to fill up with gas. And I need a can of”—she checked her paper—“10W-40 oil.”

“Sorry. Ain't got none.”

“What? Gas or oil?”

“Look for yourself, missy.” He lifted a skinny arm and pointed, revealing dark-rimmed nails. “I got 10W-30. I got straight thirty-weight. I even got that new stuff, twenty. But I ain't got 10W-40.”

“But that's the kind I was told to get.” She glanced at the dusty shelf with its assorted dusty cans of oil. “Will one of those other oils work? I'm driving a VW Bug.”

“Reckon you could try and see.”

The old coot seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. Luz swallowed a lump of indignation. “Is there another gas station nearby?”

“Yeah,” he drawled. “Up the road a piece.”

Margaret drew back her shoulders. “How far is ‘a piece'?”

“Don't know exactly.”

“Roughly.”

“Two, maybe four miles.”

Luz looked at Margaret, despair flickering in her eyes. “We could try and drive. Or walk?” She turned to the man behind the counter. “You couldn't maybe drive us?”

“Nope. Can't leave the store.”

Luz closed her eyes and pinched her lips. There was no use
telling the man he wasn't being the least helpful. “I'll call Sully,” she told Margaret. “
He'll
know what to do about the oil,” she said louder than she had to. “Can I borrow your phone? Mine's still dead.”

The old man lifted his chin, indicating the phone. “Might not get that fancy phone to work out here.”

Luz scowled at him, then dialed Sully's number only to discover that she couldn't get reception. Hoping to get a better signal, she went outside with Margaret right behind. Once again, there was no reception. Feeling dejected, they walked back across the dust and dirt to the car and stared helplessly at the engine, reassessing.

Stacie was leaning over the hood of the nearby pickup truck, her ample bottom swaying from left to right, deep in conversation with the man filling his tank. Serena stood at her ankles, staring back at them with pleading eyes. When the man was finished with the gas, Stacie came sauntering over, leading her new friend as though he, too, were on a leash.

“Hi, girls,” she sang out. “I brought someone who might help us damsels in distress.” She looked up and smiled sweetly into the man's face. “This here's Wayne.”

“Ladies,” he said, touching his hat. “You look like you could use some help.”

Stacie flashed them a smug smile.

“Well, sir,” Margaret began, “my friend here forgot to change her oil and so the red light came on. We figured out we need oil, but the guy in there says he doesn't have the right kind. We're not sure what to do next.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

Wayne bent over the engine and checked the oil, clearly wanting to get his own read. He whistled and shook his head in disbelief
when he saw the dipstick. “You girls should be glad your engine didn't seize solid,” he said. “What kind of oil do you think you need, and what kind do they got in there?”

“Sully says we need . . . well, here,” Luz said, handing the paper to the man.

Wayne looked at the list, nodding in that way men did that told everyone they understood the situation perfectly.

“See, oil has different viscosity,” Wayne began, speaking slow like he was speaking to children. Mentally challenged children. “Never mind about all that. Come on in the store and I'll point out the right one to get.”

Wayne bought them all Cokes and they sat in the shade and chatted while the engine cooled and their thirst slackened. He filled the oil tank and wouldn't take a penny for his time. “Just be sure to check the oil every time you buy gas,” he told them.

“He's a real knight in shining armor,” Margaret said, looking after him as he walked back to his truck. “I didn't think guys like that existed anymore.”

“Oh, there's lots of guys like that in Texas,” Stacie said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Ain't nothing a Texas boy loves more than to come to a girl's rescue. 'Specially if she's pretty.”

“That so? Then why are you going to L.A.?” Margaret asked her.

“It's my destiny,” she said, and smiled that megawatt smile of hers. “Speaking of which . . . it's time to say good-bye to you girls. I'm hitching my star to Wayne.”

Luz was shocked and her face showed it. “You're what? Stacie, you only just met him!”

“He's nice. I can tell.”

“I know we didn't hit it off right away, but . . . ,” Margaret began.

“Oh, Lord, no,” Stacie exclaimed with a light laugh. “You might've been wearing your britches too tight, but that's not why I'm going. I was talking to Wayne and he told me he's heading straight to L.A. and he offered to give me a lift. Hey, it's the way I roll. Wherever the whim takes me. So I thank you for your hospitality. I really hope you make it all the way to Mexico and find all you need to find.”

She stepped forward to hug Margaret. “Keep it real.” Then she moved to Luz. “I just know my granny would have loved you. She liked a girl with a lot of heart.” Then softly in her ear she added, “Thanks for saying yes.”

Stacie stepped away and dug through her bulging purple bag. She pulled out some papers and thrust them into Luz's hands.

“This is for Abuela's
ofrenda,
” she said. “I loved her stories, too. Whenever I see a butterfly, I'll think of her. And you!” She turned on her heel and hurried off in her signature hip-rolling walk to Wayne's pickup.

Luz looked in her hand and saw the label from the oil bottle crumpled up with a twenty-dollar bill. She lifted her arm to wave the label in an exuberant farewell.

Stacie stuck her platinum head out the window as the truck pulled away and shouted, “You might not know where you're going, but in the end, you get to where you're supposed to be!”

Luz and Margaret waved and watched the back of the U-Haul as it spit gravel and dust and disappeared up the entrance ramp to the highway.

“Words to live by,” Margaret said dryly.

Luz laughed and slammed the hood shut. “Come on, Margaret. It's just you and me again. Let's get back on the road and get to where we're supposed to be.”

When the caterpillar has become too large for its skin, it molts. Monarch caterpillars go through five stages of growth called instars and grow two thousand times their hatch size before forming a chrysalis.

M
ariposa brushed the palomino until her golden brown coat gleamed and her pale mane was free of tangles. She'd put her back into it, brushing till her arms ached and sweat dampened her flannel shirt. When she was finished she smelled worse than Opal, but now she was satisfied there wasn't a speck of dirt left on the horse's tawny hair, from the white stripe down her face to her flank.

She lowered her arms and tossed the soft bristled finishing brush into the basket. Opal shook her head and leaned into Mariposa with her weight.

“You want more, do you?” she said with a soft chuckle, reaching up to run her hand across Opal's neck and ears. “Greedy girl.”

When she'd first started taking care of Opal, she'd felt terrified whenever the big horse leaned into her. Now she understood that the gesture was a sort of nestling, even if Opal's weight made it cumbersome. Mariposa rested her head against Opal's neck and closed her eyes. The heat of the horse seemed to come from her
core. Inhaling, Mariposa smelled the fresh hay she'd laid and that horse scent that always calmed her. She had come today to settle in her mind the question of calling her mother. She hadn't yet heard from her and Mariposa didn't think she could keep on waiting, wondering.

“I missed you,” she said against Opal's neck.

“We missed you, too.”

Opal jerked her head back, startled by Sam's voice, but Mariposa had grown accustomed to Sam walking up quietly. She found his company comforting. She trusted him in a way she hadn't been able to trust a man in many years. Mariposa continued petting Opal's neck with smooth, firm strokes.

“Easy, girl. It's all right, Opal,” she said in a soothing voice as she turned to look over her shoulder. He'd stopped at the threshold and leaned against the gate, crossing his arms. It was a gesture meant to give her space as much as the horse and she appreciated it.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” Sam said.

“You didn't.”

“Opal looks good.”

Mariposa nodded, pleased.

“How are you?” he said.

It was a common expression of greeting, but Mariposa heard the deep concern embedded in the words. She turned to face Sam. His hat was off, his dark hair was damp at the temples, and his bronze skin glistened with sweat after working the horses. But it was his eagle eyes that always caught her attention. They were searching her face, looking for signs of pensiveness or sadness.

“Conflicted,” she replied, opening herself to a discussion that,
to her surprise, she wanted to prompt. Immediately Sam's attention focused, as she knew it would.

“About what?”

“I've been thinking a lot about our last conversation. Back at the lake. You asked why I didn't call my mother myself. I've been asking myself that question, a hundred times a day. And I don't have any decent answer, other than that I'm afraid.” She turned to stroke Opal's long neck, feeling comfort in the feel of her soft hair against her palm. “I've been haunted wondering why they haven't called me back. That's more torture than just picking up the phone and calling.”

“What's the worst that can happen if you call?”

Mariposa closed her eyes. “She'd hang up on me.”