Running Wide Open Page 7

  Another hour and a half passed as I trudged southward. Finally, I spotted a sign announcing a rest area. I could sleep there and catch a ride in the morning.

  Finding a place to lie down in that dripping, deserted scrap of civilization was a challenge. The bathroom was dry and relatively warm, but it reeked. The map kiosk offered a little protection from the rain, but it was too exposed. Finally I decided on a hemlock about a hundred yards from the parking lot. The spreading, densely-needled branches almost swept the ground, offering a decent amount of shelter. I curled up under it using my duffle bag for a pillow. Within five seconds, I knew how much sleeping on the ground was gonna suck.

  Shit, maybe this whole idea had been a mistake. But how could I have stayed? Race had bitten my head off, jumping to conclusions just like Dad. If I hadn’t left, he would’ve thrown me out anyway. Anyone could’ve seen that from the look on his face. At least this way it was my decision.

  You’d think that at 2 a.m. a person could sleep anywhere, but it didn’t happen. My body ached from the fight, the ground dug into my hip and shoulder, and my feet felt like I’d been wading through a Slurpee machine. Around me, darkness closed in despite the lights in the parking lot. The thought of all that farmland and wilderness bordering the rest area gave me the creeps. Who knew what kind of wildlife was out there, waiting to snack on a city boy? Cursing the chain of events that had led me to be shivering under a damn tree in the middle of nowhere, I curled into a ball and waited for the sun to come up.

  A wave of anger rolled over me as I thought of my mother in Phoenix, no doubt snuggled up in some warm, cozy bed. I hoped she suffocated in her goose down comforter. I hoped she flunked out of the bartending school Dad said she’d enrolled in. The idea of her lending a sympathetic ear to some wasted boozehound made me laugh. She never listened to my problems. For years now her attitude had been, you’ve got a roof over your head, food in your belly, and clothes on your back. Don’t expect me to take a personal interest in your life, too.

  Resentment bubbled and roiled as I remembered all her screw-ups. But a tiny, honest voice told me to get real. I wouldn’t care so much about the mean things she’d done if I didn’t have good things to compare them to.

  When I was really little, maybe two or three, Mom had been my best friend. She’d been so beautiful, so charming, and I’d been willing to do anything to make her happy. Every night when she tucked me into bed, she’d snuggle close and tell me stories. She didn’t read them from a book. She made them up—fairy tales in which she was the beautiful queen and I was her brave and noble prince. But somewhere along the line that changed. I guess I stopped being cute and sweet enough for her. Or maybe I wasn’t brave enough. Maybe she was right, and I was too much like my dad. By the time I was in kindergarten, it seemed like I couldn’t do anything right. I was too noisy, too thoughtless, too moody. Every once in awhile the old magic would come back, but then I’d do something to set her off again.

  For years I tried to win back that closeness, stuffing my feelings away, giving her treasures I’d found, setting the table without being told. But none of it worked. Even now there was a part of me that hoped she’d wake up one morning and start loving me again. Sometimes, for a second, I almost thought she had. But whenever we started to form a real connection, she made some offhand comment that told me she didn’t have the first clue about who I was. Since when aren’t you good at math? You’ve always loved math!

  I tried to sweep the thoughts of her from my mind, but they swarmed back like mosquitoes, only scattering when the sky started to brighten in the east and I finally dozed off.

  Traffic pulling into the parking lot woke me a couple of hours later. The sun had emerged, coaxing wisps of steam from the asphalt. Stiff and cold, I brushed hemlock needles off my clothes. The mirror in the bathroom was one of those sheets of polished metal that don’t give you a real image, but I could see that sleep had smashed my hair into a ridiculous wedge. Wetting the gel in it, I tried to get it to stand up and arch the way it should.

  I wondered if Race had figured out I was gone yet. He’d be getting up fairly early to enroll me in school. What would he think when he found out I wasn’t in my room? Would he consider himself lucky, or would he get that hurt look in his eyes? Maybe it wasn’t too late to go back. Maybe . . . no. I wouldn’t suck up to him. I’d made my decision and I was gonna stick with it.

  My empty stomach protested as I scouted the parking lot. Hunger had become my mortal enemy way back in seventh grade, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it now. I spotted a young guy in a battered Honda Civic and hit him up for a ride. He was a college student at Southern Oregon University, on his way back to school after a wild weekend in Eugene, and though he proved a little too chatty, at least he didn’t ask stupid questions. Unfortunately, something was messed up with the engine of the Civic and it wouldn’t do more than fifty. It was almost noon by the time we got to Ashland. My shoes still hadn’t dried out, and I was ready to pass out from the gnawing in my gut.

  I broke my only twenty for lunch. What was I gonna do for money when I got to LA? Would anybody hire me? No way could I pass for sixteen. Doubt swelled in my chest, but I forced it down. It was warm in southern California. I could sleep outside, maybe find work in the orchards and fields where the winter produce grew. I called up my resolve and hiked back to the freeway.

  A frustrating hour passed as I stood along I-5, fatigue pulling at my outstretched arm. The sky, which had started the morning clear and blue, was clouding over. I lit a smoke and started walking. I didn’t know how far it was to L.A., but waiting for a ride sure wasn’t cutting it.

  By now Race would’ve called my dad. Maybe he’d even taken my boxes to the Greyhound station to ship back to Portland. He must be relieved to have me gone. Hadn’t he said his life would be a lot easier without a teenager in it? Now he could get back to his regular routine. He wouldn’t have to worry about the beer disappearing from his fridge, or some punk kid embarrassing him in front of his wanna-be girlfriend.

  Dad wouldn’t be the least bit surprised I’d screwed up. He’d probably already bought a bus ticket to Colorado. And when Mom found out—if she bothered to talk to me at all—she’d tell me what a loser I was for blowing yet another opportunity. An opportunity she’d slaved away to give me.

  One of those old Jeeps that look like a jacked-up station wagon on steroids pulled to the shoulder, kicking up gravel. It sported a homemade camouflage paint job in various tones of green and brown. I practically needed a ladder to crawl up into the front seat. Once inside, I almost wished I’d stuck with walking. The driver, a crew-cut guy in Army fatigues, wore a knife the length of my forearm on his thigh. The back end of the vehicle was loaded with ammunition and freeze-dried food. Three guns that looked like they were meant for hunting critters of the two-legged persuasion sat snuggly in a rifle rack that straddled the rear windows on the driver’s side. If I hadn’t been afraid of breaking my leg on the plunge to the ground, I might’ve bailed right then and there.

  “Where ya headed?” the guy asked.

  “L.A.”

  “Bad idea. The big cities are gonna be the first hit.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I kept my mouth shut.

  For the next thirty minutes, the guy lectured me on getting away from civilization if I planned on living through the nuclear meltdown that was sure to come any day. I kept my hand on the armrest, inches from the door handle, just in case. I’d read that these survivalists tended to be loners, but I didn’t want to take a chance of being whisked off into the woods to live on nuts and berries.

  In Yreka, a miniscule town maybe twenty miles south of the Oregon-California border, the dude exited the freeway and pulled to the side of the off-ramp.

  “You’re on your own from here,” he said. “Be careful. No telling what kind of pervs and weirdos you’re gonna run across hitchhiking.”

  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

  T
hree forty-three, and I’d only made 200 miles. At this rate, it would take a week to get to LA. I was starving again, so I bought a small bag of Doritos at a gas station, feeling vaguely uneasy as I parted with the money.

  Had Race even bothered to look for me? Maybe he’d just gone to the shop to work on that roll cage, grateful to have me out of his hair. I thought of the disappointed expression on his face when he’d broken up the fight. I was used to looks like that, but Race’s had been a sucker-punch.

  I shook my head. Why should I care what he thought? He was just a two-bit race car driver at a speedway no one ever heard of. He lived in a dump rats would run screaming from and lacked the sense to find a real job. Hell, he didn’t even have the guts to tell his crew chief he liked her.

  I trudged down the freeway on-ramp, wondering if I was pushing my luck. That last ride had been freaky and, growing up in Portland, I knew there were people even weirder and more dangerous than that. Maybe I should turn around before something really crazy happened. But a bob-tail semi eased onto the shoulder, so I climbed into the cab.

  The driver, a pot-bellied guy with a scraggily beard, wore a ball cap with a black and silver race car embroidered on the front. “Where ya goin’?” he asked.

  “L.A.” Somehow, there wasn’t as much resolve in my voice as there had been when I’d said it earlier.

  “I can take you as far as Sacramento.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The truck driver turned out to be the quiet type. The country music I had to endure blaring from his radio seemed a worthwhile trade-off for that. I kicked back, relieved to sit and enjoy the scenery. I-5 wound crazily through the mountains in a series of twisties that angled either uphill or downhill but were never flat.

  My stomach rumbled and I glanced at my watch. Five-twenty. Was Race still at the shop? Maybe he was working on the Dart. I’d forgotten to ask Kasey what the big deal was about him driving a Dodge. Now I’d never know.

  I thought about the smart-assed smirk Race had given me when he handed me the phone book the day before. Too bad about those karate lessons. I could’ve leveled that stupid kid in five seconds if I’d known a little karate.

  My stomach growled again. As the hunger grew it reminded me of my dwindling funds. Maybe I should’ve raided my uncle’s wallet before I left. Just thinking about that made guilt prickle my conscience. It hadn’t bothered me to take my dad’s money, but stealing from Race would’ve been like kicking a dog.

  I glanced over at the truck driver. The car on his hat displayed the number 3. Just above it, the name Dale Earnhardt was stitched in silver thread.

  “You a stock car racing fan?” I asked. Spurred on by doubt or loneliness, the words slipped out of my mouth before I realized I was gonna say them.

  It was like flipping a switch. Mr. Quiet launched into a blow-by-blow of the previous day’s Winston Cup event, whatever that was.

  “How ’bout you?” he asked. “Got a favorite driver?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know much about it. My uncle races, though.”

  “Yeah? Where at?”

  “Eugene Speedway.”

  The trucker scratched his beard. “Never heard of it. He any good?”

  “He won two races Saturday night. His crew chief told me he’s second in the points.”

  That earned an appreciative nod. “You watch him race a lot?”

  “Nah, this week was the first time. I prob’ly won’t go back.”

  “Didn’t do anything for you, huh?”

  I shrugged again. I wasn’t really sure how I felt about it. Much as all the waiting around had sent my brain into hibernation, there was something about seeing the Dart slam past that spinning car and leave a streak of paint on the wall that had given me a rush. Maybe talking about it would help me sort things out. I described the main event to the trucker.

  “Sounds like your uncle’s quite a driver.”

  “I guess. But he’s crazy. He eats frozen Twinkies for breakfast, and he’s got a girl for a crew chief.” I was surprised to feel a smile spread over my face as I remembered how Race had neglected to tell me Kasey was a woman. One thing I had to admit—my uncle didn’t lack a sense of humor.

  “So, you got kin down south?” the trucker asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Just strikin’ out on your own, huh?”

  I glanced at him uneasily, wondering if he was gonna bust me. “Pretty much.”

  The trucker nodded. “Tell me more about this uncle of yours. He sounds like quite a character.”

  Since there was nothing else to do, I humored him, relating everything I knew about Race, Kasey, and the guys at the speedway. The more I talked, the more I realized that some part of me wondered what was gonna happen to them. Would Race take the points lead? Would he get up the nerve to tell Kasey how he felt about her? And what about Addamsen? Was he gonna make good on his threat to pull something nasty next week?

  “How’d you end up with your uncle, anyway?” asked the trucker. It was the type of question I usually ignored. But something about his friendliness, or maybe the fact that I knew I’d never see him again, led me to tell him the whole story.

  “Shame it didn’t work out for you,” he said.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Did you try to explain about the fight?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he would’ve understood.”

  “I doubt it.” But as I thought back to last night, when Race had stood outside my door, I realized the trucker might have a point. Race hadn’t sounded mad. He’d sounded worried.

  We rumbled along for several miles without speaking.

  “You know,” the guy said finally, “It strikes me that someone like your uncle probably wouldn’t ask too many questions if you were to have a change of heart.”

  “I can’t go back.”

  The trucker let my statement hang there unchallenged. On the radio a country singer wailed about his lost love.

  “Everyone makes a bad decision now and again,” the truck driver said after a few more miles. “Only time it gets to be a problem is when you don’t admit to it and set things right. Be a damned shame if you blew your one chance at something good because of misplaced pride.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t I?” he glanced at me across the cab of his truck. “You think you’re the first kid to ever run away?”

  I turned toward the passenger window, staring down at Lake Shasta, which stretched out beneath the bridge we were crossing.

  “I left home when I was thirteen,” the trucker said. “Knew from the minute I set foot out the door that it was a mistake, but it took me two whole days to come to my senses and go back. Can’t imagine where I’d be now if I hadn’t done that.” He hesitated, letting the words sink in. “In about ten, fifteen minutes we’ll be in Redding. If you’re interested, I could probably hook you up with a northbound ride.”

  The lake disappeared behind us. Trees flashed by, firs and pines giving way to oaks as the elevation dropped. The trucker seemed to feel he’d made his point, and he didn’t say anything else.

  He was probably right about Race. My uncle wasn’t the type to rub a person’s nose in their mistakes. Maybe I’d given up on him too soon. The fact was, I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of always having to act tough, tired of being on the road. Just once I wanted to be able to let down my guard.

  I thought of how Race had volunteered to take me when the rest of the family couldn’t be bothered. How he’d held his temper and stayed friendly no matter how hard I’d pushed. If there was anyone I could trust it had to be him.

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try,” I said. “California’s not going anywhere.”

  * * *

  When we got to Redding the trucker found a driver who was headed up to Medford and didn’t mind giving me a ride.

  “You might be able to find someone there who can give you a lift the rest of the way to Eugene,�
� he said, slipping me a twenty, in case I ran out of cash. “Good luck with your uncle. You mark my words, he’s gonna be glad to see you.”

  But when I got to Medford I found myself stranded. Everyone I approached at the truck stop was either done for the night, headed south, or skittish about giving a kid a ride. After a few tries I lost my nerve and started second-guessing my decision. What if Race didn’t want me back? What if he stuck me on the first bus to Portland?

  I grabbed a burger in the truck stop restaurant then stepped out into the parking lot. Daylight had given way to dusk and a light mist chilled the air. After walking back to the interstate, I had to make a decision. North or South?

  I headed down the northbound off-ramp and stuck out my thumb. In spite of what the trucker had said, I worried I was setting myself up for disappointment again. Even someone as soft as Race would have to be crazy to give me another chance. But foolish as I felt, I stood there in the growing drizzle, waiting for a ride.

  I was still standing there half an hour later, only now it was pouring. I looked up at the big green sign above me. Exit 30. The one in Eugene had read 189. Almost a hundred and sixty miles. That would be a long walk.

  Water from my hair dripped under the collar of my leather jacket and trickled down the back of my T-shirt. I didn’t know if I could put up with another night like the last. My shoes hadn’t dried out fully until after three o’clock, and between the fight and sleeping on the ground I still felt stiff and sore. Maybe I should call Race. I could stand here all night and not get another ride. Would he drive all that way, though? Maybe he’d tell me to get lost.

  I waited another twenty minutes, but no one stopped. Finally I turned around and headed back to the truck stop. My cold, wet fingers fumbled through my duffle bag for the notebook where I’d written Race’s number. I had to force myself to dial the phone. What if he wasn’t home? What if he hung up on me? I almost hung up myself after the second ring, but before I could, Race answered.

  “Hello?”

  I couldn’t get my voice to work.

  “Cody, is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Medford.”

  The line went momentarily quiet, then, “Want me to come get you?”