The door swung in, and a mother entered, shepherding her little girl toward the sink. She stared at me, then looked away quickly, and I knew hiding in the bathroom all day—appealing as it sounded—wasn’t really an option. I pushed open the door and almost tripped over Roger, who was sitting on the floor to the right of it.
“Hi,” he said, standing, and I saw he had my purse with him. “Um, you left this outside.”
I nodded and took it, staring down at the gray-brown carpet. “Thank you,” I said, hearing that my voice still sounded raw. But thankfully, no longer out of control.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Since the answer was so clearly no, there didn’t seem to be any point in telling him that I was fine. I didn’t think I was that good an actress. I just shrugged.
“Well,” he said, then paused a moment before going on. When he did, it was hesitantly, like he was searching for each word before speaking it. “If you ever want to talk—or just want me to listen—I mean, I could …”
“Who told you?” I asked, saying the words very quickly, as that seemed to be the easiest way to get them out. “Was it your mom? Or the program on the fridge?” I didn’t trust myself to look up yet, so I asked the carpet these questions.
“My mom,” Roger said after a moment. “I think she went to … to the service.” She might have. She might have ridden into St. Andrew’s on an elephant and I wouldn’t have had a recollection of it.
I nodded. “Do you …” I took a breath and forced myself to say it. I didn’t think he knew. But I needed to be sure. “Do you know how it happened?”
“No,” he said. “Do you want to tell me?” I shook my head, just once to either side. I could feel my lip begin to tremble again, and I bit down on it, as hard as I could. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “We should probably hit the road, don’t you think?”
I nodded, and when I looked up, I saw that Roger was holding out his sunglasses to me. I didn’t even think about refusing, just took them and slipped them on. They were too big for me, heavy square guy sunglasses, and they slid down my nose. But at that moment, I was just grateful to have a bit of a barrier between my face and the world, if only so I wouldn’t frighten Yosemite’s children. We headed out of the lodge, and I gave it one last look before I stepped outside. It no longer seemed like the cozy place it had this morning. I let the door slam behind me and followed Roger to the car.
2
The Loneliest Road in America
Long-distance information, give me Memphis, Tennessee.
—Elvis Presley
FEBRUARY—FOUR MONTHS EARLIER
What do you think?” my father asked, turning from me to Charlie, looking incredibly proud of himself.
I glanced across the dinner table at Charlie, then to my left at my father, who was smiling wide. Then I looked down at the gift I’d just unwrapped—a Frommer’s guide to Memphis, Tennessee. Charlie looked similarly puzzled by his present, a book on the history of the blues.
My mother, coming back to the table with her mug of tea, smiled and shook her head. “I told you they were too abstruse, Ben,” she said. I didn’t know what that meant but, as usual, Charlie seemed to.
“They’re clues,” my father said, not seeming to be put off by our reactions at all. “To where we’re going this summer.”
I held up my book. “I’m guessing Memphis?” “Yes,” said my father with exaggerated patience. “But not just anywhere in Memphis….”
Charlie rolled his eyes and set his book down. “Graceland?” he asked, and my father nodded. Seriously? he mouthed to me across the table. I ignored him.
“Yes!” my father said, taking the book from me and flipping through it. “I was thinking about July. So clear your calendars, you two, we’re calling on the King.”
Charlie shook his head and pushed the book away. “No offense, Dad, but Graceland’s kind of lame.”
“Lame?” my father asked, mock-outraged. He turned to my mother for support, but she just smiled and shook her head, already flipping through the New York Review of Books, staying out of the conflict like she always did.
“It’s not lame,” I said, taking my present back from my father and paging through it.
“Have you been there?” Charlie asked.
“Have you?” I retorted, glaring at my brother. I didn’t know why Charlie always had to be so difficult, and why he couldn’t just go with something for once. It wasn’t like Graceland was the first place I wanted to go either, but clearly it was important to Dad. Which, as usual, Charlie didn’t seem to care about.
“Your sister makes an excellent point,” my father said, and I heard Charlie mutter, “Of course she does,” under his breath. “As the only one sitting at this table who has been to Graceland, I can attest to its non-lameness. It’s an American institution. And we’re going. We’ll pack up the car—”
“Wait a second.” Charlie sat up straight. “We’re driving? To Tennessee?”
“We’re going to discuss that,” said my mother, looking up from her paper. “It’s a long way, Ben.”
“No better way to see America,” my father said, leaning back in his chair. “And when we get to Memphis, we’ll see Beale Street, and the ducks at the Peabody, and get some barbecue….” He turned to me and smiled. “You ready to navigate, pumpkin?”
She’s gonna make a stop in Nevada.
—Billy Joel
“Are we headed the right way?” Roger asked, glancing over at me. I pushed his sunglasses up and rotated the map. I had directed us out a different way, since it had looked easier to leave through the other side of Yosemite, rather than retrace our path to the park entrance.
“I think so,” I said, looking at a sign as we neared it. But it was completely covered by the branches of the tree next to it. I could only see a strip of green at the top. “Oh, good,” I muttered.
“I’m just a little turned around,” said Roger, peering ahead of him.
“We’re okay,” I said, seeing, relieved, a sign that wasn’t overgrown with branches and told us which way to get to the highway. “Just take the right up here.”
“I’m glad you’re on top of this,” he said, making the right. “I’m not the greatest with directions. And I can never tell when I’m lost, either. It’s a bad combination, because I always think that if I just stick with the road long enough, it’ll all work out.”
“Well, I’m good with maps. So I’ll navigate,” I said, speaking around the lump that was threatening to form in my throat.
“Excellent,” he said. “You’ll be my Chekov.”
I looked over at him. “Anton Chekhov?” I asked. “The playwright?”
“No, Chekov, the navigator of the Starship Enterprise,” he said, looking back at me. “From Star Trek.”
“I’ve never seen Star Trek,” I said, breathing out a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe Roger wasn’t quite as cool as he’d first seemed.