Ah well. Maybe I’m nostalgic after all. I want things to be what I expect them to be, and this all looks stupid to me.
An hour into the drive, I crest a rare rolling hill and see something brand-new, and this time it’s something so delightful, it makes me gasp with delight. Windmills! Huge white windmills!
They seem a mile high as their blades turn slowly in the wind. I squeal in wonder at the beautiful scene laid out before me. A dozen of these giants are scattered over ranchland, and as I keep driving, more peek over the horizon to reveal themselves. They look like colossal robots marching toward an invasion, determined to defeat all the things I hate about this place.
So perfectly beautiful. I can’t believe Oklahoma found yet another energy to farm. It’s quite an accomplishment since that Silkwood scandal put the kibosh on the nuclear industry here decades ago.
I’m impressed. I’m also a little giddy. This is exciting.
I was bored before this trip, and that’s a dangerous state for a girl like me. Something cool and unexpected suddenly becomes catnip, and I want to roll around in it. When I was younger, that meant a dangerous affair or a high-risk scheme, but now I’m feeling a strange rush of endorphins over these inanimate objects. Maturity, I guess.
A mile down the road I see that one of the towers is relatively close to the highway, and I slow to roll down my window. I’m surprised at the silence of this great beast. I’d expected a whomp-whomp sound, but the blades turn too slowly for that. They are masters of disguise, actually seeming larger from a distance than they are up close. Something about the proportion makes this illusion possible. I clap my hands in wonder.
What pure delight to find that the stolid metal soldiers follow me through my whole drive. I feel like their general, in charge and taking stock.
Though I lose sight of them occasionally as they stick to a faint rise in the land, looking for the highest points, they soon return toward me in a wave like they can’t resist my draw. When I near another that looks close to the road, I pull into a narrow dirt lane that ends abruptly at a metal gate just thirty feet into the scrub pasture.
After turning off the car, I put my shoes to the red dust. I can see a door at the base of the metal tower, and it’s only about a hundred feet past the gate. I want to be up close in the worst way. And there’s a chance there won’t be a lock, or a bigger chance that someone could have forgotten to lock it.
It’s a long shot, but I still ignore the “Private Property” sign and climb over the metal gate to pick my way through rows of crop stubble. I can’t tell what it was from the few inches that stick from the ground, but a small herd of cattle graze on the leftovers a quarter mile away. People think cows are so docile, but these beef cattle are half-wild and mean as hell. Take it from my misspent youth: you do not want them riled up and freaked out. At least all the calves have been weaned and separated and de-balled, so the group seems comparatively laid-back with no babies to protect. They’re far enough away that I’m not worried, but bovine trampling in rural Oklahoma is not the way I plan to go down.
When I get to the huge base of the tower, I hop up eight metal stairs and try to twist the door handle. It’s definitely locked. “Damn it,” I growl, tugging and twisting and cursing. The mechanism doesn’t budge, and I can clearly see the keyhole in the lock. Why oh why didn’t I summon the patience to learn lock picking when I was younger? I watched videos and everything, but the practice wasn’t enough fun to stick with.
Away from the traffic noise, I can hear the blades now, whooshing above me. I put my hand to the tower wall and I feel the whooshing now, along with a mechanical hum.
God. This is so cool. I wonder if there’s a big spiral staircase inside, like a lighthouse. After tugging at the door one last time, I give up and stomp down the stairs.
Bastards.
I loudly mutter curse words as I pick my way back through the stubbly field and beep my vehicle open again. I wanted one little fun thing, but now there’s nothing to keep me from driving straight to my boring destination. I’m thirty minutes away at most.
But I’m not going home. Not really. My parents have nothing to do with Kayla’s disappearance as far as I can tell, and the run-down roadside motel in my hometown isn’t suitable to my tastes. I’ll be staying in the county seat instead, and that would be my first stop anyway. Joylene confirmed that Ricky is currently in the county jail for a six-month stint for parole violations. The penitentiaries are too full for that kind of shit, so he gets to stay in lockup with nine other men and one toilet. What a life, my darling brother. What a life.
When I reach the city limits, I check into the nicest hotel in town. It has an indoor pool and an attached bar, and all the kids I knew who got married right out of high school had their wedding receptions here. I came to each one I found out about. I wasn’t invited or anything. I didn’t have any actual friends. But there was always booze and free cake, so why not help them celebrate?
Sometimes there was a hot young uncle in the parking lot with weed, the kind who would say, “You’re eighteen, right?” with a little wink. I wanted access to the Jacuzzi and their cooler full of beer, so I was more than willing to flirt.
Anyway, this place is filled with memories.
“Inside room,” I tell the scrawny old woman checking me in. “First floor, overlooking the pool.”
“No problem, sweetie. Get to the buffet before five thirty tonight if you want to avoid the rush.”
The rush? I glance around at the empty lobby and shrug. Then I take three of the fresh cookies laid out on a plate next to the American Express sign and roll my bag to my room. It’s a perfect location. I can sit on a chair with my lights off and watch the people in the pool area, and they’ll never even notice me. Unless I want to be noticed. I often do.
But no time for fun now. Visiting hours at the jail end in ninety minutes, and I may as well get this over with.
I grab one more cookie on my way out, eating it as I slide my driver’s license into my jeans and lock my phone and wallet in the glove compartment of my rental. It’s not my first time visiting this asshole, though it is my first time not being dragged along by my parents. Another moment of maturity.
I inform the officer at the front who I’m visiting, then start the half-hour process of getting examined and quizzed and patted.
“You can leave your phone and valuables here,” a guard says, sliding over a numbered plastic bin, as if I’d trust him with my shit.
“I didn’t bring anything. Just my ID.”
“Done this before, have you?” he asks, finally looking up from his paperwork to run his eyes over my breasts before he looks at my face. I’m obviously a desperate bitch and probably a lonely one if I’m visiting a man in jail.
“Sure, I’ve made the rounds,” I volunteer, just to confuse him.
“What?”
“You can have your bin back, sir,” I say, sliding it toward him slowly as if it’s a treasured possession. “I’m all taken care of. Are we done?”
After a blank stare, he finally jerks his chin toward a platoon of dirty plastic chairs. “Wait there.” All my amusement falls away at the sight of the cheap chairs, the stackable kind you can buy for eight dollars outside the grocery store during the summer. They’re meant to be hosed off in the yard every once in a while. These chairs have not been hosed off in a very long time. I stare at the gray grime of layers of skin cells and body oil that’s worked deep into the texture on the plastic and I decide to stand.