The Rejected Writers' Book Club (Southlea Bay) (13 page)

All I could see were moving heads on the screen, but I couldn’t hear a thing over the engine.

Annie laughed at something Lottie had said, then shouted back, “Okay, have fun!”

The picture went dark.

“Darn, lost the signal,” said Annie. “That was fun, wasn’t it,” she said, putting her iPad away in her bag.

We kept on climbing. As I looked out the window, the scenery around me was beginning to change significantly, as well as the temperature. Doris shouted back to us, “We should be getting to the top soon, and then we’ll hit three thousand feet.”

We journeyed on for another twenty minutes. All we had to listen to was the high-pitched strain of the engine as it climbed higher and higher.

As I looked out on the view, I was overwhelmed by the sheer majesty of it all. Thick forests of emerald-green trees reached skyward from snow-laden peaks. In between, forging their way through jagged gray granite, craggy brooks and waterfalls frothed and spluttered down the mountainsides.

“Isn’t it pretty!” said Annie.

I nodded. It truly was an awe-inspiring sight, nature at its finest, unspoiled and raw, without any footprints of civilization for miles around, and that made me just a little nervous. My ears started to pop as we adjusted to the altitude. The car clock read 3:30 p.m. It would soon be getting dark.

As we started to crest the top, a battered sign marked the entrance to a desolate rest stop. Doris pulled in.

“Oh, good. Potty break!” said Annie, putting down her knitting and grabbing her roll of toilet paper. Flora had used most of hers up sobbing quietly in her corner.

I stepped out and took a deep, slow breath of the frigid air. It was silent and isolated, as if we were the only people left on the planet.

“It’s cold enough to snow, don’t you think?” noted Annie, joining me as I stood looking out at the incredible view.

Doris brought out some sandwiches she’d made that morning, and Ethel sat blowing her nose as she fed a group of chipmunks right under the “Do Not Feed the Wild Animals” sign.

“How long till we hit a town?” I asked Doris. The anxiety was obvious in my tone.

Doris fetched her map and took the opportunity to spread it out on the picnic bench.

“As far as I can see, we have about another twenty miles of mountain driving, and we should make it into northern California before six o’clock. There are lots of nice hotels there, and we should easily be in San Francisco by tomorrow afternoon.”

I took another deep breath. Just thinking about a large city made me feel as if we were close to safety.

“Right,” said Doris decisively. “If we want to get over this pass before dark, we should get moving again.”

Back in the car, Annie remarked absently, “It sounds like the stories Lavinia found will be an interesting read.”

I went ice-cold.

“What did you say?” I asked, shouting over the whine of the engine.

Annie raised her voice. “Lavinia found some stories that she’s going to read to the group and said they’re pretty raunchy.”

“What!” Doris and I shrieked in unison.

Doris slammed on the brakes. Behind us, drivers skidded to emergency stops and honked their displeasure as they pulled around us.

Doris was bearing down on Annie, who was looking from one of us to the other in bewilderment.

Doris found her voice. “What did you say?”

“That Lavinia said she’d found some raunchy stories that she was going to share with the group.”

“What kind of stories?” demanded Doris.

“I don’t know,” said Annie weakly. “It was hard to hear.”

“Where did she find them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Get them back on!”

“I can’t. We don’t have a signal.”

“Try, dammit!” bellowed Doris.

“Don’t shout at me!” screamed back Annie. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Doris matched Annie’s pitch. “You should have told me about the stories. Why didn’t you tell me straightaway?”

“Why?” yelled back Annie. “What’s the big deal about some racy stories of Lavinia’s?”

Annie’s voice was starting to crack as Doris delivered the final blow. “Because they could be about my momma, that’s why!”

The car became deadly quiet as the reality of what Doris had just said sank in. Annie burst into tears, and she and Flora started to sob in unity; then, right on cue, Ethel sprayed the car with an immense sneeze, causing Doris to swear and smack the steering wheel.

“Why don’t we all just calm down?” I said, trying to be the voice of reason.

Doris swung open her door and jumped out of the car.

I got out to talk to her. “Doris, I know this is hard, but you don’t know what stories Lavinia is talking about. For all we know, they could be from one of her romance magazines.”

“But if they’re from that terrible journal I hid in the attic, then they’re about Momma. Horrible lies about her. I just don’t know what she’ll do if she hears them.”

“Look, there’s nothing we can do here. Once we get to the other side of the pass, we’ll get a signal again. It’s still early. We can ring the twins and warn them not to read them.”

Doris nodded. Her face reflected all the fear and worry she felt.

She was in no condition to drive, so I climbed into the driver’s seat. I started the car and, gripping the steering wheel, desperately tried to focus on the road ahead.

The one thing I hated above traveling through the mountains was actually driving the passes. I looked at the group in my rearview mirror. We were a mess. Annie and Flora sobbed; Ethel, red-eyed, sniffed; and beside me, Doris seethed. So much for the fifties fantasy, because compared to this road trip,
Thelma & Louise
was starting to look like a soppy love story.

Chapter Eleven

A ROCKSLIDE
&
A HAUNTED HOUSE

We drove for another twenty nail-biting minutes, and the silence in the car was eerie, only punctuated from time to time with a sob or a sniff. Out of nowhere, we suddenly hit traffic. As we started to inch along, I noticed cars and trucks appeared to be turning back toward us.

“Looks like trouble,” said Ethel as she blew her nose again.

This new turn of events seemed to break the deadlock in the car.

Doris turned to Annie, squeezed her hand, and apologized.

“What do you mean about your momma?” croaked Annie, her voice hoarse from crying.

“I can’t talk about it right now. It’s just too hard.”

Flora nodded, took Doris’s hand, and squeezed it too.

After a one-hour crawl, we hadn’t even gone ten miles. As we crept forward, we could see a state trooper ahead waving a flashlight and turning drivers back. By the time we inched to the front of the line, it was almost 5:30 p.m., way past dusk, and a damp, heavy fog was starting to swirl ominously around the car.

Rolling down my window, I asked, “What’s going on, officer?”

“Landslide. We have heavy equipment down there right now moving it as best we can, but it was a doozy. There’s no way we’re going to be able to secure the road tonight. Your best bet is to make it back to Ashland or Medford for the evening.”

“Medford,” I repeated, a note of hysteria creeping into my tone.

“Sorry. There’s no way I can let you through here this evening. It’s just not safe.”

Before I could say anything else, he was waving us on with his light and walking toward an RV behind us.

Wheeling the car around, I started to double back. I looked at the gas gauge. We were nearly on empty. I’d meant to remind Doris to fill up when we’d left the coffee shop, but with the upset with Flora and Ethel being sick, I had quite forgotten. It would be touch and go whether we would make it back anywhere close to civilization. We would be coasting on fumes before we hit the bottom of the mountains.

“What’s it going to be, then?” asked Annie, as if we were making a decision about dessert.

“The first thing we need to do is find a gas station.”

Trucks along the route had pulled over onto the hard shoulder, settling down for the night.

“You know, there was a little convenience store about five miles back,” mentioned Annie optimistically.

“Yes, they may know where we could get gas.” I recalled the place; my spirits lifted.

“And maybe they have a phone I can use too,” Doris added.

We drove back and pulled over. The store appeared to be closed, so Doris and I peered in a window and saw a hodgepodge of camping and fishing paraphernalia. Way in the back, there was a light shining from what seemed to be a back office. The faint strains of a TV floated from it. I rapped on the door. Nothing. I rapped again harder. The TV turned off.

A dark head poked out from the back office door, and a man shuffled toward us. He was older, with a leathery, weathered face and heavy wrinkles that seemed to roll over each other. He was wearing an oversized woolen sweater and khaki pants. On his feet were well-worn hiking boots. As he looked up at us, I thought I caught a wry twinkle in his gray eyes, as he gently unlocked the door.

“Did you want some bait or something? Because officially we close at five o’clock.”

“We don’t need anything except some help.”

He nodded as if he’d known that all along and that digging people out of trouble on the mountainside was his real life vocation.

“I need to use a phone,” demanded Doris urgently. “We don’t have a signal up here.”

“Then I suppose you’d better come in.”

He pointed to a payphone just inside the door. Putting on lights as he went, he eventually positioned himself behind his counter, which was stocked with a dusty display of fishhooks, chocolate mints, and Beanie Babies.

“My name is Joe. Welcome to the Fish and Cut Bait Store. How can I help you?”

“There’s been a landslide about five miles from here on the way over the pass.”

“Yes, I know,” he said nodding nonchalantly. “Happened about two hours ago. It happens a lot this time of year. It won’t be cleared tonight. Your best bet is to make your way back to Medford till the morning.”

“That’s just the problem. I’m going to need gas to get back there. Do you know if there’s a gas station nearby?”

Joe rocked back on his heels and let out a low, long whistle and shook his head slowly, as if he were thinking.

Just then, a younger version of the man in front of me came through the same office door. In his hand, he had a blackened pan that contained what looked as if in a former life used to be baked beans.

“This is my son, Tom,” said Joe. Then with a hint of impishness, he added, “As you can see, he’s our cook around here.” He turned to Tom. “They’re looking for a gas station.”

Tom also let out a low whistle. “Did you tell them we’re all diesel up here?”

“No, I was just about to. Nearest gas station is on the other side of that rockslide.”

They both stared at the floor and started shaking their heads in unison. I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt so desperate.

Doris arrived by my side, shaking her head and whispering, “I’ve called both numbers. No reply.”

“Let’s hope for the best, Doris.”

She sighed deeply, nodding, and then knitted her brow as she caught a glimpse of the pan in Tom’s hand. “Is that what you gentlemen call dinner?” she asked, eyeing the pan with disgust.

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Joe. “We’re just two old bachelors living up here. Nothing to work with except a microwave and one gas ring.”

“That’s no way to eat!” she sniffed. “You’re doing a manly job; you should be eating a decent meal.”

They both smirked, appearing to appreciate her forthrightness, but neither of them commented. They were men of few words. It must be quiet living in the back of beyond with no one to talk to but trees and fish, I thought.

I tried again. “Is there anywhere nearby that we could stay for the night?”

“Not up here,” said Joe, shaking his head again, “unless you’ve brought your tent. There’s an old lodge close by for skiing in the season, but that place isn’t open till after Thanksgiving. It doesn’t make sense to open it till we have some snow.”

“Do you think the owners would be willing to let us stay so we could get a decent night’s sleep?” I asked desperately. “We could be on our way early in the morning as soon as the pass clears.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Joe. “It hasn’t actually been aired out or anything yet. The last party was up there last April.”

“And there will be nothing to eat there except a bunch of canned vegetables,” added Tom.

“Is there a reasonable kitchen?” inquired Doris.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, it’s very equipped. It even has two sinks,” added Tom in a tone that hinted that he thought even one sink was an indulgence.

“Perfect,” said Doris. “I have all my own food supplies with me.”

I noticed she’d started to cheer up. Cooking always seemed to do that for her.

“How do we get a hold of the owner?” I was starting to see a glimmer of hope.

“It’s just owned by a father and son,” Joe said with a hint of a grin. “I think we could get a hold of them this evening.”

“We’re very clean and willing to pay for the accommodation. And I’ll cook a meal they won’t forget in a hurry,” added Doris.

“You’ve got yourselves a deal. I’ll go and fetch the keys. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a meal we’ll never forget.”

As I followed Joe and Tom, my headlights illuminated a pile of tools under a scruffy brown tarp in the back of their immense white pickup truck.

After about half a mile, they turned off the highway, and we started to climb. My engine labored again as we headed up a goat trail of a road. It was now pitch-dark, and we inched along the steep path that had thick brush on one side and a sheer drop on the other. I tried to concentrate on the taillights in front of me. The road suddenly flattened out, and an old log cabin came into view. Joe and Tom stopped, and we pulled up and parked beside them. I exhaled and released the steering wheel I’d been gripping for dear life.

Tom got out of his truck and walked over to us. “Why don’t you all stay in there awhile so we can get a fire started and the lights on?”

Thanking him, we watched the building gradually fill with the flicker of candlelight. Eventually a slow circle of gray smoke curled out of the chimney silhouetted against the dark sky.

All at once, there was a rustle in the bushes to the right of us, just a few feet from the car, as if something large were scrambling to hide. We all looked in the direction of the disturbance, but it was too dark to make anything out. The bushes rustled again, and it sounded as if whatever it was had lunged away to hide in thicker brush.

“What was that?” asked Flora in a whisper.

“Oh, probably just a possum or a raccoon,” I answered, not even convinced of that myself but not wanting to take my imaginings any further.

“Too big for a possum,” said Doris as we heard small branches snapping underfoot.

“Sasquatch!” growled Ethel with a conviction that implied she’d met him personally.

Tom came trundling out. He explained there was still a bit of work to do before the season began, but it would keep us warm and dry for the night.

“A bit of work” was an understatement. As we entered, I felt a strong camaraderie with Snow White when she’d first entered the dwarves’ cottage. Though from what I could see, that chick had it easy. This place was a cauldron of gloomy walls, hanging cobwebs, sticks of ugly furniture, and threadbare carpets. As we stepped inside the front door, Flora froze and anchored herself to the spot ahead of me as if she planned to put down roots right there. I nudged her gently in the back to keep her moving. We shuffled in together in a huddle, none of us wanting to leave the safety of the pack or, in fact, touch anything.

The men were working on the fire in the main room. Dominating the one main wall was a monstrous, heavily carved fireplace that was just missing a country squire and a couple of dogs flanking it. Above the mantle, a somber picture of a hunting scene was complete with mutilated animals, and on top of the ramshackle mantel sat an old brass candelabrum with nubs of gnarly candles they’d lit.

We shuffled our way in as if we were joined at the hip and gravitated toward the fire, the only warmth in the room. In front of it sagged a humungous sofa that sported ugly, wood-carved gargoyle armrests and a dirty brown ticking. It was the least inviting thing I’d ever seen. Speechless, we sat down on it all together, like five nuts in a sack. The sofa screamed out, and we jumped back to our feet.

Tom turned around, saying matter-of-factly, “Oh, that old sofa’s springs are on the way out. Don’t worry about it. It only bites people on Sundays.”

Doris opened her mouth to say something but nothing came out. I think we were all thinking the same thing. We’d traded a beautiful lakeside home for the Hammer House of Horror.

Tom put wood onto the fire, and Joe offered to show us around the “old place.”

“It belonged to my grandfather,” he explained with pride. Raising the candelabrum above his head, he led us toward a long, dingy passageway.

“Is there no electricity?” I asked, hoping for the best.

“Oh, yes, we have electricity up here now,” he said with assurance. “But a fuse must have blown. We’ll take a look at it.”

We followed him down the gloomy hallway, where every few feet of wall space was punctuated with the head of some poor animal. We couldn’t help being wide-eyed and terrified. I noted that Ethel had disappeared somewhere beneath Doris’s coat, and Flora seemed to be wrapped around me like a scarf. For five women, we were so interlaced that we took up the space of just one.

“My grandfather really used it for hunting. In fact, he shot most of what you see on these walls.”

Joe opened up one of the corridor’s paneled doors, and it creaked desperately.

We all peered inside as if we were expecting a ghost to jump out. But actually the room looked quite comfortable and clean. Joe walked in and drew the dark, heavy curtains.

“I have a woman come out and clean up before the season starts. She was here yesterday and has already made headway on the bedrooms. But she won’t be back till next week to finish off the rest of the house.”

The woman needed a medal as far as I was concerned. It was still gaudy and dark, but it had a breath of spring life about it. A large four-poster oak bed dominated the room, with crisp white sheets. A cozy handmade patchwork quilt was folded at the foot.

“Ethel and I can take this room,” said Doris, marking her territory by throwing her huge flowery purse onto the bed. “We don’t mind sleeping together.”

Ethel scuffled in and perched on the edge of the bed like a little bird.

“Okay,” said Joe. “Let me show the rest of you the other rooms.”

Our optimism was short-lived as Joe opened the next bedroom door. The room was freshly cleaned and possessed a simple charm, but it lost all of its appeal once we looked up at the wall over the bed. Hanging from it, bearing down on us, was an enormous moose head. It fixed us with its glassy stare, as if it were telling us that it had no intention of letting anyone sleep. I heard Flora catch her breath beside me as Annie tightened her grip on my arm. Why was I suddenly the strong one?

Joe walked into the room and adjusted a mat, oblivious to our discomfort.

“This was my grandmother’s room,” he mused, fondly. “She loved it in here. I remember as a small child hearing her sing as she sat sewing or reading in that chair over there.”

He pointed to a heavy, dark, carved chair with a tapestry seat that looked more like a throne.

“Yes, she loved it in here,” he repeated, reminiscently. “In fact,” he said with a sigh, “she died right here in the bed in the middle of the night. God bless her soul.”

I heard Flora gasp. No doubt Grandma probably died of shock as she’d turned over in the night and saw that moose head staring down at her.

Joe looked over at us expectantly. I looked at Annie and Flora. They both had their mouths wide open and were glued to either side of me, their eyes locked on the moose. Neither of them seemed to be breathing as far as I could tell.