I finally stopped eighteen hours and thirteen hundred miles later, at a diner in a flat and dried-out wasteland where nothing seemed to grow—not trees or shrubs or even grass. Nothing but a sprawling vista of dirt in every direction. And two buildings: a restaurant with a hand-painted sign out front that read THE DINER THINGS IN LIFE and a large and only slightly dilapidated farmhouse maybe fifty yards past the diner.
I couldn’t say for sure what state I was in. I’d stopped keeping track. I only knew that my gut was churning from lack of food and my head was buzzing from lack of sleep. Coffee and flapjacks would give me the strength I needed to get back on the road. I’d worry about getting some rest later.
I heard country music playing inside. I figured it would be one of those backwater eateries where everyone turns and stares as you enter, then whispers about the outsider who’s eating alone. Carrying a PBS tote bag wouldn’t help matters, but I wasn’t about to leave sixty thousand dollars sitting in my car.
A tiny Liberty Bell hanging above the entrance rang when I entered. A minute later, a waitress came charging through the kitchen’s double doors, carrying a pot of coffee in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other.
“Anywhere ya’d like, hon,” she said.
The place was nearly empty, the only customers a sun-beaten family of four in a booth by the window. I took a stool at the counter, set the tote bag at my feet, and hooked the foot of my uninjured leg through the straps. At first I was alone, but then an elderly man in a John Deere baseball cap came back from the gents, sat two stools over, and buried his head in a newspaper.
Be friendly, I told myself. But not memorable.
“Peaceful in here,” I said to the man, then smiled. “Like we might see a tumbleweed roll by.”
He didn’t so much as glance in my direction, but the waitress, who was fiddling with the cash register at the opposite side of the counter, gave a little snort.
“As long as it’s a payin’ tumbleweed,” she said.
She walked over to me with a menu.
“I’m Doris,” she said. “I own the place. Special today is split pea.”
“I’m Michelle,” I told her. “This might sound dumb, but I just pulled off the highway, and I’m a little disoriented. Can I ask what town we’re near?”
“You headed west?”
“East,” I said.
“Oh, you from Phoenix? I got cousins in Prescott. Next town east from here is Kerens. Sixty-one miles. Not much of a town compared to Phoenix. Doubt it has a hundred people in it. Love your hair, by the way.”
She had the Texas accent, but you couldn’t call it a drawl. She talked faster than any New Yorker, almost as if she was trying to clear room for the next thought. She was younger than Aunt Lindsey, but not by much, and she had a similar air about her—as though she’d treat you with kindness but wouldn’t be taken for a fool.
“Sixty-one miles,” I repeated.
To a town with no population to speak of. What were the chances anyone would think to look for me there?
I glanced around at the decor before opening my menu. There were truck parts hanging wherever you’d expect a poster or a sign. An air horn painted in polka dots dangled from a hook above the fountain soda machine. A mud flap decorated with stick figures and an arrow pointed to the restrooms in the back. A radiator grille separated patrons from the area behind the counter. A side mirror jutted out from a support beam like a fancy light fixture, in contrast to the chandelier made out of a semi-size tire. The wall behind the counter was plastered with license plates. All in all it was an homage to the interstate, without which this place couldn’t exist.
“I see you’re noticing my Great Wall,” Doris said, nodding toward the license plates.
“I like it,” I said. “A travel theme.”
“More like a departure theme: every state worth leavin’. Which is to say, every state but Texas.”
So I was in Texas, somewhere between the interstate and a town called Kerens.
“Coffee’s free with waffles,” she said. “Just so you know.”
“I’ll take waffles, then.”
“Good choice. They ain’t killed no one yet.”
I smiled, handed her the menu, went back to perusing the Great Wall. Mixed in with the license plates was a sign that read HELP WANTED.
“Any chance you’re hiring a cook?” I asked.
“Waitress. I’ve got bunions on my bunions. Why, you lookin’?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I’m a chef.”
“Don’t need a chef. Need a waitress, though.”
She gave me a wink I couldn’t quite interpret, then headed into the kitchen.
My mind started racing. I’d been thinking I’d push on for Mexico just like every fugitive in every movie, but as plans went, that one had its flaws. First and foremost, I’d have to cross the border with a sack full of sixty thousand dollars. Second, if I made it across the border, I’d be driving blindly into a country I knew nothing about, and I’d have to learn the ropes in a language I barely spoke. Then there was the question of how long sixty grand would last given that I was unlikely to score a work visa.
But Texas was a different story. I spoke the language. I was employable. No one would look at me twice. And if they did, they wouldn’t know what they were looking at: the Costellos’ network petered out around Pensacola, and my disappearance wasn’t exactly national news.
I’d have to ditch the car, buy a used one someplace that accepted cash and wasn’t fussy about paperwork. Maybe I’d get a Ford F-150, circa 1980. Something old
