Backseat Saints (8 page)

As far as Thom knew, I was home right now, chirping a happy tune while I bleached his underpants back to white and waltzed
the vacuum back and forth across the den. When I saw him, I couldn’t even ask how Gretel was, or even if she was alive, which
she absolutely had to be and was. Roch nodded his agreement. I had to be like regular until Thom told me what had happened.
I’d need to listen to him say all the things I had done to him in the woods as if the story was new and strange to me. I felt
my eyes widening, practicing surprise.

“Oh, my God, Thom, are you okay? Is Gretel okay?” I said. It sounded fake. I tried letting my mouth drop open. “Are you kidding
me? They
shot
at you?” That sounded worse. “I am completely fucked,” I said, and that, at least, rang absolutely true.

I pressed the bottle against my other eye. It felt good, that cool smoothness holding my eyelid closed. My saints rustled
around me, impatient for action but low on actual suggestions. Why should they help me, anyway? What kind of a low-rent Catholic
shoots at her husband because of mystical tarot cards?

Something about that pinged around in my head like a false note. Not tarot cards. One card. The last card.

But the gypsy had turned three. Past, present, future. A loss, a marriage made of swords, a choice. I’d been running for days
on the steam of the third card alone. I hadn’t thought about the rest of them. When a twenty-years missing mother pops up
at a routine airport drop-off, a person can miss a few tricks. If the mother then drops a bomb like “Kill your husband,” the
rest of the conversation tends to get shit-canned in the fallout. But we hadn’t started with change or death. We hadn’t even
started with my marriage. We’d started with a loss. The gypsy acted like she was the thing I’d lost, but the card hadn’t been
the four of
mothers.

It was a tower on fire, and it could mean anything. I’d said it was Jim Beverly mostly to hurt her, but she’d insisted she
was the thing I’d lost with all the things she didn’t say. She’d tucked messages all sneaky under her words. Under every word.
Even her pauses seemed, in my memory, to be dripping secret meanings. I could see her in my mind’s eye, giving her lip a sly
tap with that silver-stained finger.

Not fairy dust. Paint,
I thought, and at once I understood where I had to go. My hands were still shaking, but my vision was clear. I put the Honda
in reverse and pulled out, heading back to the highway.

I got back on 40, going west this time. I drove one-eyed, with only one hand on the wheel. The other hand still held my Coke
bottle to my face, letting the coolness do its good work. Amarillo grew smaller again in my rearview mirror. If I’d been Lot’s
wife, I’d have been salt nine times over by now; I made myself quit stealing peeps at it.

I had to look sharp and purely forward and check oncoming traffic for Thom’s Bronco. Nothing passed me going the other way
except a jewel bright VW Beetle. Back in Kingsville, when Thom and I were first dating, I’d have said, “Punch buggy blue!”
and knuckled him in the shoulder. We’d graduated to harder hitting games since those days.

When 40 ran into the remains of the old Route 66, I knew I was close. I scanned the horizon, slowing. Over the years, Thom
and I had driven past Cadillac Ranch a few times on the way to other places, but its graffiti greetings were for teenagers
and tourists. We had never stopped.

The land was so flat, I saw the silhouette of the cars jutting up against the horizon from a long way off. Sunlight bounced
off the metal. They were in the middle of a wheat field, ten Cadillacs buried butt-up in the soil, rusting out slowly in the
dry air and covered in graffiti. I pulled off the road and eased down the shoulder until I came up even with them.

I turned off the engine, and the only sounds left were the outside wind and my own heart pounding. It hammered so strong that
I could feel my pulse in my hands and in my ears. It banged at my ribs from the inside. I pictured the backside of those flat
bones shivering into a lacy network of cracks that matched exactly the healed ones Thom had put on the other side. My heart
was the only part of me that felt like moving. My eyelids felt cold and heavy, and my worthless legs were made of slag.

“What’s wrong with me?” I asked Saint Roch. He only shrugged. It was Rose Mae who knew the answer.
You’re in shock, you moron. Eat some sugar.

I popped the cap off the Coke with the opener on my key chain and drank half of it off. I usually carried a granola bar, but
I’d left my purse at home. It hadn’t seemed right to bring my driver’s license and a lip gloss along to shoot my husband.
All I had was Pawpy’s gun, both pieces stuffed back inside the Target bag, and the gypsy’s Stephen King book, sitting on the
passenger seat.

Then I thought to look in Mrs. Fancy’s glove box. She had three snack-size boxes of Sun-Maid raisins tucked away in there.
I dumped one box out in my hand and started eating them, picking them up one by one with unsteady, pinching fingers, like
a toddler. They had no taste, but I swallowed them dutifully, taking them like pills. When they were all gone, I got out of
the car. The wind
grabbed at me, stronger than it sounded from inside. There was nothing in these flat fields to slow it.

I pulled down the brim of my cap so the wind couldn’t take it. I walked across the field, my saints trailing behind me in
a line. The only footfalls I heard were mine, but the heavy wind was saint’s breath on my neck, strong enough to move ships,
yet sweet like a cow’s, warm and grassy.

There were no tourists, no one at all around right now. Just me and the cars. I stepped in between two of them to get out
of the wind. The closest car looked ready to crumple in on itself. The looping net of spray-painted words over words over
words might have been the only thing holding the back doors on. The graffiti overlapped, letters and pictures and colors canceling
each other out, layered a hundred deep. I found I still had the Coke in my hand, and I finished it off, staring at the closest
car over the tilted bottle.

The gypsy had told me to come here. She’d been insistent. She hadn’t wanted me to wait even an hour, and now I understood
why she’d been so demanding. I knew what I would see. Somewhere on these cars, she’d left a message for me. Maybe she wasn’t
sure if she even wanted me to see it, so she had hinted it was here and then left it up to fate. She’d seemed like she was
big on leaving things to fate.

I could imagine her with a spray can, the wind in the wheat field blowing her scarves and layered skirts around as she covered
over older words with silver, the paint staining her finger, making one car’s side into a blank, clear page so she could write
to me. It was the safest way to tell me how to find her.

You are welcome,
she had said, right at the end. Not like I had thanked her, which I most certainly had not. She’d said it like an invitation,
but an empty one, to nowhere in particular. I’d been focused on stealing her book, looking for the information she’d already
left here for me. It seemed so obvious now, and now was when I most needed it.

Thom was out there, so angry that he had swollen up to be miles wide, filling up all the space between me and home. The sun
was rising up and making full, bright morning, and every minute that passed made it more likely he would catch me out.

I wasn’t sure exactly what-all she would have written. An apology? She owed me a thousand of those. I wanted her note to say
that I was a red hole dug out of the guts of her, a seeping wound that hadn’t healed a lick in the twenty-odd years since
she had left me. More likely it would be more crystal-fueled dumb-assery, telling me which stars were sorry. She’d left a
map or an address, that I was sure of.
You are welcome
, she’d said. It was an offer. There would be a place for me to come, to hide, if I failed and had to cut and run the same
way she had done.

If I was like her.

I went to the end of the row and began searching the cars, working my way down, looking only for newer messages that had silver
in them. I found quite a few on the first car.
Neal + Wanda = 4ever. Tre is a manslut. Cowabunga!
Metallic paint was popular.

The second car said that gay men were for peace, and they’d drawn silver hearts and stars and peace symbols all around the
words to prove it. There was a tic-tac-toe game that the cat had won. My saints trailed me, mournful, offering no guidance
as I moved to the next car. I found more silver paint, spelling out
Karen has June Fever
and
Uncle Kulty was here!

On the fourth car down, on the side that faced away from the road, I saw the rosebud. It was the wrong colors: red with a
long green stem and poinks of brown paint for thorns. But a rose is a rose, and my heart stuttered at the sight of it. I quickly
scanned the words around it, regardless of color. To the right, someone had written,
Sex, Drugs, Rock-n-Roll, Anna!
in thick blue paint, and on the other side, there was only
I am the Bringer of Blood
in dark red. I looked down the row and saw the next car sported a red-and-green tulip drawn by the same sure hand. I walked
down a few steps, and sure enough, the next car’s side had a red daisy. The rose was not for me. It was only some LSD-infested
flower child in a belled ankle bracelet, getting all literal.

I went back to the fourth car. The only silver here was under the rose, and it said,
The fun’s at RODEO!
That had to be the gay men for peace again; Rodeo! was Amarillo’s most notorious drag bar. I saw some glints of older silver,
but the newer messages were all in neons and primary colors.

I moved on to the next car, then the next, working my way down the row. I found a silver proposal,
Marry me, Lia!
and pictures of musical notes, boobs, and a pair of running horses that looked like cave drawings. Nothing for me.

I came to the last car, but it was entirely free of fresh silver paint. I searched it even more carefully. There was nothing.

I hit the final car’s back fin with the flat of my hand, as hard as I could. My palm stung. I pressed my hand against the
hot metal, panting hard. It was here. It had to be. I must have missed it.

Or I was too late. Three days had passed since I’d seen her at the airport. She’d insisted that I come out here at once; she
knew her message would be covered over sooner or later.

I walked down the row and started again at the first car, hunting more carefully this time, looking for my color under the
newer words. On the third car, a glittery white paint caught my eye, fooling me, but it wasn’t silver.

The next car had the picture of the rose. It was drawn straight up and down, ignoring the tilt of the slanted car. The green
stem ended where the car met the ground, and it grew straight up, so that some of the petals touched the undercarriage.

All three of the flower drawings looked weathered, as if the paint had been there awhile. The gypsy would have seen this rose,
then, and she must have guessed it would catch my eye. The words
Sex, Drugs, Rock-n-roll, Anna!
looked fresh, written thick and dark, as if Anna had gone over each letter twice. I leaned in closer. Under those words,
I could see that something had been written in metallic silver paint. The gypsy may have used the rose as a marker for me,
but some girl named Anna had taken a can of blue paint, her name, and her unhealthy priorities and wiped the message out.

I went backwards, moving right to left away from the rose until I found the place where the silver paint began, under the
e
in
Sex
. The writing was small, and two lines of text were buried under Anna’s message. I could make out a capital letter
I
, then a
d
, and what I thought might be the top and the dot of a lowercase
i
that was framed by the capital
D
in
Drugs
. I could see the top half of the letter after that. It was a vertical line, so it could be a lot of things. Another
d
, maybe, or
b
,
k
,
h
, or
l
. Maybe even a
t
with a low crossbar; spray paint didn’t lend itself to good handwriting. Anna had written her important philosophy in thick,
broad strokes, covering the gypsy’s smaller words at random, but I found an
o
, a
v
, another possible
o
, and an obvious
u
with a low, curved line after, like a comma.

The second line had more visible pieces. It started with an
ay
, and I could make out three letter bursts of longer words,
Sai
and
Cec
. It ended with a lowercase
a
and a smeared exclamation point.

I stepped back from the car, into the full force of the wind, trying to gauge the spacing of the letters. I put my free hand
up to hold my hat on.

I di ov u
, butting up to the picture of the rose.

Under that,
-ay t Sai Cec a!

“I’d like to buy a vowel,” I said, squinting at it, hating Anna and drugs and rock-n-roll and sex so hard in that blank second.
She couldn’t have painted over the tic-tac-toe game? I couldn’t make the letters say
Berkeley
. Perhaps my mother was in a suburb or a smaller town nearby. Saint something? Santa Cruz didn’t fit, and I didn’t know California
well enough to make a better guess. I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to remember the names of cities in California.
I stared and stared, and then, almost involuntarily, I understood the first line of the gypsy’s message:

I did love you.
And then a comma and my name in picture form. I was already shaking my head in flat negation when the rest of the missing
letters filled themselves in for me, and now I could see the whole thing.

I did love you, Rose. Pray to Saint Cecilia!

I shook my head. That couldn’t be it. Pray to Saint Cecilia? If she was going to tell me to pray, why not to Monica, a beaten
wife herself, or a hard-ass like Saint Paul? Saint Paul and the gypsy both knew all about abandoning a life in midstride.
Cecilia was the patron saint of music, and there was no way praying to that pious warbler could ever make me safe.