Lost Highways (A Valentine Novel) (20 page)

A Woman’s Heart

A
s she stepped out of the dressing room of her trailer and into the glow of the pole lamp, her heart beat with anxious expectancy. She wore a long-sleeved sweater with a neckline so wide it was almost off the shoulders, requiring a strapless bra as it would on occasion slip off one or the other shoulder in an especially sultry feminine way she liked, although she shivered in the cool air. The sweater was over a flowered silk skirt and fancy custom-made boots, and she had done up her hair.

She had not dressed for a man in a long time. She had not gone out with a man in a long time, and this was a bona fide date. Harry was taking her to a place he had gone to the trouble to seek out, a place he said would have Spanish guitar music—in her mind very passionate—and Mexican food—hot and spicy—and wine—enticing and sweet.

He looked at her, and she was thrilled by the way his eyes were eating her up.

He said, “You look beautiful.”

“You’re awfully handsome yourself,” she replied.

They gazed at each other for a few more seconds, and then the puppy’s yipping drew their attention. He wriggled at the end of his leash tied to the trailer. She didn’t want to leave him tied there while they were gone. He’d been there so many hours already, and there was a chance of rain, maybe a storm that would frighten him.

“I think I’ll put Sergeant in the dressing room,” she said, going over to release his leash.

“Sergeant?” Harry said.

She was trying out another name. “He is a police dog…at least mostly.”

“Don’t you think you might confuse him with all these different names?”

“I want to get just the right one. That’s really important.”

“I agree, that’s why Roscoe is good.”

She cast him a skeptical look. “It sort of sounds like an old bum,” she said as the puppy clambered happily into the room.

“I think a comment like that would offend the Roscoes of the world. You’re operating from some sort of prejudice.”

“Oh, well…” She laid a pair of her jeans down, and the puppy curled up on them immediately. “I have never met anyone named Roscoe,” she said, leaving the light on as she shut the door. Hopefully he would be content enough that he wouldn’t tear up anything.

They had driven about five blocks, following the directions to the restaurant, when seemingly at the same moment that it began to rain, the truck suffered a flat tire. The right front, this time, a blowout causing the wheel to pull hard but conveniently over to the curb.

“Maybe this rain will pass quickly,” she said, still gripping the steering wheel and gazing at the drops on the windshield.

But Harry, already removing his expensive sport coat, said, “I’ll get it changed quick.”

She insisted the rain would pass in a few minutes, but he wouldn’t listen. Slipping into his denim jacket, he buttoned it up, snugged his hat on his head, shot her a smile and told her to wait in the truck. “No need for both of us to get wet.”

She watched him slip out of the truck and sort of duck against the rain. He stepped back to the truck bed, where, luckily, they had left the spare and jack after leaving Uncle Doyle’s. It didn’t seem to be raining too hard, and maybe it would not get worse.

Harry disappeared downward beyond the front fender. She looked through the rain-spattered glass and nervously watched traffic going past, worrying that someone could crash into them and push the truck right over Harry.

Then the rain began to come down harder, until it was streaming over the windshield. Lightning forked the black night sky, and thunder cracked sharp enough to cause her to jump. Then lightning came again, hitting just one street over, she was certain.

She grabbed her mother’s old brown sweater and held it over her head as she popped out into the storm and went around and yelled at Harry, “Get in the truck. You’re gonna get electrocuted!”

“I’m already wet now,” he yelled back at her. “You get back in the truck.” He was having a fight with a lug nut and cast her only a glance. He had only succeeded in removing three of them.

She could not get back in the truck and leave him out in the rain, possibly to be struck and killed by lightning. It seemed the least she could do was stay there and brave it out with him. She
pleaded for him to get into the truck, but he ignored her, and she saw a stubborn streak in him that he must have been saving up all these years of giving over to his daddy. He put both his hands and one foot to fighting with the lug nut. The lightning cracked and rain poured, while she stood there with a sweater over her head, watching water dribble off his hat, knowing clearly that in the days since she had met him, she had been so preoccupied with her own inner struggles and reactions to him, that she had not truly seen
him
.

Another particularly close lightning strike, and Harry grabbed her arm, propelling her to the passenger door.

“Get in there.” He opened the door and shoved her inside.

Stunned, she sat there a moment. He had not fully closed the door, and rain spattered on her arm.

Throwing Mama’s sopped sweater to the floorboard, she opened the glove box. The Bible popped out at her, reminding her to say a few hasty prayers as she dug under the napkins for a small can of WD-40. Again getting out of the truck—she could be just as stubborn as he could—she hurried around Harry to spray the lug nut, although it seemed a fruitless gesture in the pouring rain. Harry watched her as if she were crazy, but then he went to work on the lug nut again, so she figured he was crazy, too.

There in the pouring rain and with lightning hovering overhead, he kept at it until he was able to remove the flat tire. She lifted the spare to roll it toward him. He pushed her hands away and took the tire from her, and she watched him put it in place before she went around and got back into the cab behind the wheel.

Her wet sweater sleeve did little good when she pressed it to her runny nose. She sat there waiting, sniffing, shaking in her clothes, the sweater hanging off her right shoulder, dribbles of
water tickling her neck. Reaching out, she turned the heat on full. She was digging out a towel she’d remembered was stuffed behind the seat when the passenger door opened and Harry came in with wind and rain.

He slammed the door closed and removed his hat, and when he tipped it, water streamed to the seat.

His gaze came over to meet hers. Then she glanced up at his hair. It was dry, perfectly dry, while the rest of him was sopped. Pointing this out, she started to laugh. His dry hair seemed as absurd as what they had both done.

“What were you thinking?” she asked and passed him the towel.

“To change a tire. What were you thinking?”

They gazed at each other a moment and then went to pointing fingers at each other and calling each other stubborn and crazy.

“I think your father should see you,” she said. “I’ll bet he never knew you could be this stubborn.”

“Oh, I think he knows,” he said, patting his thighs with the towel. “That was the whole problem.”

She didn’t know what to say to his comment. She was a little overwhelmed by him. There was something she saw in him now, a rod of steel that put her in awe and admiration and even made her a little afraid, in an excited sort of way.

“I guess you wouldn’t want to go on to the restaurant,” Harry said, disappointment echoing in his voice as his eyes swept over her hair and down her clothes, lingering distinctly, she saw, on her wide neckline and breasts.

“Well, I think I do. I’m hungry, and I’d just as soon go, if you don’t mind me goin’ with how I look.”

“You look great to me,” he said, which she thought was wise of him. But he did seem to mean it.

So they were off again, her driving and trying to see through the rain, and Harry reading the directions on a now damp scrap of paper. The ink had run, and Harry couldn’t be certain at one point if they were to turn left or maybe the clerk at the hotel had written “Rt” for right.

They ended up lost in what looked to be a rather tough neighborhood. The rain had stopped, and they could see better, but reading the addresses didn’t help a lot, as the clerk had not written down a street number, only the name of the restaurant and the street it was on. At least driving around so long gave them time to drip-dry down to damp.

After circling one block twice and still not finding the restaurant, Harry pointed to a couple of men standing on a corner underneath a streetlight, out in front of a seedy-looking little bar. “I’ll ask them where this place is.”

She didn’t think that was such a good idea, as the men looked decidedly questionable, as any two men would, standing like that at such a late hour in front of such a bar. She pointed this out to Harry and cited that he and she were outsiders in such a neighborhood. “I could fit in,” she said, “but you are definitely a Yuppie.”

“I think, riding in this truck, I am fitting in quite well,” he told her.

She overlooked his disparagement of her truck, cautioning, “They could be drug dealers or something.” They definitely looked like the sort she had seen on television.

He said, “I don’t care what they do for a living. I just want directions.”

He gazed at her expectantly. Still reluctant, she nevertheless directed the truck to the curb in front of the two men. She thought of her Daddy’s gun in its pocket, but a safer course seemed to remain in gear and ready to drive. She thought that
if the men made any type of threatening move, she could hit the gas and get out of there.

In response to Harry’s question, one of the men stepped forward. He was a black man, with close-cropped hair, a tough-looking face, a neck as thick around as his thigh, and a threadbare coat. She kept her feet ready to switch pedals.

Then he spoke and came out with the mildest voice, saying, “Well, son, you’re a little off course.” He smiled at her and nodded. “Evenin’.”

“Good evening,” Rainey said, surprised.

The man rubbed his stubby chin, saying, “Let’s see now…how many blocks down do you reckon it is, William?” He looked at his friend, and they discussed in lazy drawls and decided all Harry and Rainey needed to do was to keep going in the direction they were pointed for about four blocks.

“You’ll see it off to the right in the middle of the cross street. Has the name in magenta neon lights. Real good place, too. Sometimes Spanish music, sometime jazz. Good.”

Her mind was going over his use of the word
magenta
. Whoever used that word?

Harry thanked him politely, and the two men told them to enjoy themselves. Rainey waved happily at them as she headed the truck away, and the two men waved in return.

They found the restaurant exactly as the men had said.

To Rainey’s relief, the ladies’ room was very near the entry, and she zipped in there to repair herself. Her hair was her biggest problem. She managed to pile it atop her head in a helter-skelter but very feminine fashion.

As it turned out, she need not have worried overly about her appearance, as the dim atmosphere of the restaurant was completely on her side. She thought surely the place broke all fire-safety
codes. The only electric lights were low green-and-red ones at the edge of the musicians’ area, which wasn’t a stage but simply a cleared area at one end of the room. Everywhere else, the room was lit by candles, on the tables, in sconces on the walls, on shelves, all casting a warm and flattering glow.

The restaurant was one of the most romantic places she had ever seen in her life. It was small, decorated like a patio in Mexico City, or what she imagined a patio to be in Mexico City, with vines and flowers winding upward and hanging from overhead beams—artificial plants, she felt sure, but they looked very real in the dim candlelight. At every white-cloth-covered table, couples gazed at each other over red candles. Except for one table next to a wall, where two gray-haired wizened men played chess in the light of three candles they had taken from other empty tables. Tonight the music was Spanish, acoustic guitar played with passion and beauty, a lively style to make a person tap his toe, and slower, emotional ballads of life that touched the heart and brought tears to the eyes. That most of it was sung in Spanish she couldn’t understand didn’t matter; the music transcended language.

Harry could speak Spanish, she discovered, when he ordered quesadillas and wine. His accent leaned toward East Texas, but still, she was impressed. Very impressed when they danced and he held her close and sang the romantic words in her ear. He was thoroughly romancing her, and she gave herself over to it in the manner of a woman who recognizes a rare, precious time in her life.

“I’ve never been in such a wonderful place,” she told him, pulling back to look into his eyes. “I’m so glad we came.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

He was eating her up again with his dark eyes, in a way that caused all the womanly parts of her to answer.

As they sat at the table, she laid her hand upon his strong forearm, and as they danced, she let her hand feel the hardness of his shoulder. She put her cheek next to his and inhaled his male scent deep into her body, and when their thighs brushed, she didn’t pull away. They danced and talked and ate quesadillas and some sort of cake-and-ice-cream dish the waiter said was a specialty, and then they danced some more—just to be able to hold each other—and clicked their wineglasses in a salute to themselves and remaining alive after their foolishness in the storm, and they told each other important things, such as things they had seen thus far at the fair and rodeo, their birth signs and places they had been and things they had seen and laughed at.

Neither of them spoke about what they would do when the weekend was over. How she would head for home and likely drop him at the airport to head for wherever he needed to go, his own homeward journey, she guessed. Such thoughts did enter her mind, but she kept brushing them aside. She didn’t want to tarnish this time with thoughts of reality. She figured this time was a gift. She was in his arms and felt happier than she had been in ever so long. Thinking just did not seem a wise thing to do.