Roger Range
OW MUCH LONGER?”
Richard Freeberg closed his eyes for a moment and sighed before wearily answering his son for the ninth time. “I don’t know, Billy. It should be coming up any time now.”
“I don’t know why we have to stop and see another stupid ruin,” said John, Richard’s oldest son. John was sprawled out on the rear bench seat of the Plymouth Grand Voyager that had been the family’s home for almost two weeks. “We’ve seen so many friggin’ old Indian ruins I’ve lost count.”
“John!” Richard’s wife Sonia turned around in her seat beside him to glare at their son. “What have I told you about cursing? You shouldn’t swear; it’s not polite.” She turned back around. “Especially in front of your little brother and sister.”
“I didn’t swear,” John said, rolling his eyes.
“It’s close enough, son,” Richard jumped in, supporting his wife. “We don’t want to hear that kind of language from you.”
“Aww Dad, I hear worse than that from my friends on the playground,” Billy said.
“That’s no excuse for your brother,” Sonia said. “And if that’s the case, maybe we shouldn’t let you play with those friends anymore.”
Billy looked back down at the screen of his GameBoy, apparently having risked enough parental wrath. John had by now blocked out the conversation and was back to reading his latest science fiction novel, pretty much the only thing he’d done the whole trip. Sally, sitting in the seat next to Billy, was staying well out of this argument, quietly reading her Cosmo Girl magazine.
Rich just couldn’t understand it. This was the first time he’d taken the family on a vacation by road, their first chance to see other parts of the country firsthand, and all they could do was sit and read or play video games, just like they did at home. He shook his head in bewilderment. The Arizona countryside they were driving through was beautiful in its contrast between desolate wasteland and vibrant plant life. His parents had taken him and his brother on long road trips during their summers growing up, and they had made some of the most vivid memories of his boyhood.
Rich had been planning this trip for a year, taking his entire two weeks of vacation from his construction job, to share those memories with his own kids, but it was utterly lost on them. Almost two weeks of driving from their home in San Luis Obispo out to the Alamo in Texas and back, and he hadn’t been able to squeeze the least bit of interest from his children.
As a boy, Rich had always been fascinated by the Anasazi Ruins strewn throughout the Four Corners region of the southwest. The Anasazi had a thriving culture for thousands of years, then at some point in the thirteenth century, they had moved out of their fertile river valleys into precarious dwellings in the sides of cliffs and on the tops of mesas. Very difficult living arrangements. No one knew what had caused the move. Then, maybe fifty years later, the whole culture had simply abandoned the region, and still no one could figure out why. They’d never kept any written records, just obscure pictographs, so it was all a huge mystery to modern archeology.
The mystery of the culture had consumed Richard as a boy, and he had hoped to share his enthusiasm with his kids, but not one of them seemed the least bit interested. They had been at first, especially Billy, but after seeing the first couple of ruins, they totally lost interest. Rich suspected it was because they could only look from afar. In an effort to preserve the ruins from the wear and tear of tourists tromping through them, the National Parks Service had closed off most of the ruins and they could only be seen from a distance. There were only a few sites you could still get within touching distance of, though that was, of course, strictly forbidden.
Richard remembered climbing in and playing among those same ruins with his brother, and he still cherished that youthful sense of wonder. But they wouldn’t let you do that anymore. He had to admit, it was better to have the sites preserved, but looking at the ruins was not the same as being in them. His children had lost interest in just looking.
That was why they were off their planned course now, far down a lonely, semi-paved road in the middle of Arizona’s Navajo reservation. When they’d stopped for lunch at the Burger King in town, an old Indian had heard him talking to his kids about the ruins and had interrupted them to tell Rich about a remote Anasazi site he knew about. It was far off the regular tourist route, but there were ruins there that a person could walk through and sit in, just like the ancients themselves had. With only a couple more days before getting back home, Rich was eager for anything that would grab his kids’ interest, so he happily jotted down directions and thanked the man before finishing his meal.
“Billy, get your stupid dog off me!” The sound of Sally’s angry voice drew Richard’s attention back to the cramped minivan.
“Hey,” Billy replied, “Scruffy is not stupid, he’s a smart dog!”
Sally shoved Scruffy away with her foot and said, “He’s not smart enough to know when to leave me alone. I’m trying to read.”
Richard was about to say something when he heard a loud BANG from the back of the van, and he felt it lurch towards the shoulder. “God damn it!”
“What was that?” John asked.
“Flat tire I think. Hold on.” Richard fought the wheel to turn the van onto the shoulder, slowing steadily. When they finally rolled to a stop, a bit further off the shoulder than he had intended, he looked back to check on the rest of his family. “Is everyone okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine.”
“I think so.”
Next to him, Sonia looked shaken. A bit pale, but unhurt. He nodded to himself, shut off the engine, then opened the door and got out. The hot, dry, Arizona air assaulted him as he walked around the back of the van. He heard the side door slide open before he got around the corner.
“Everybody stay in the car.”
Heedless, John hopped out and bent down to look at the tire. Ready to start his junior year of high school next month, John was at the height of his rebelliousness.
“I said stay inside,” Richard repeated.
Ignoring him, John pointed at the loose flaps of rubber that had once been a tire. “Wow, what’d we hit?”
“I didn’t see anything on the road,” Rich answered, giving up.
Sonia rolled down her window and stuck her head out to see for herself. “How bad does it look, Rich?”
“Well, it’s flat.”
“Flat? It’s damn near shredded!” John added.
Rich stood up, sighed, and looked around. There was nothing in sight but Pinion Pines, Joshua trees, and the hardy desert undergrowth that grew in this rocky, sandy dirt. Beyond that, nothing but distant mountains.
“Well, everybody out. Sonia, pop the tail door please. John, help me get the spare.”
“Okay.”
The van was packed solid with luggage, and they had to pile most of it on the ground before they could reach the floor to look for the access panel to the spare.
“Rich,” Sonia asked, “why don’t you just call triple-A?”
“It’s just a flat tire, Sonia,” he answered, failing to keep the irritation out of his voice. He didn’t need any arguments now. He was already close to the edge. “I’ve changed flat tires before.”
John tugged at the carpet that lined the back of the van as Rich added the last of their bags to Mount Luggage.
“Um, there’s no spare under here, Dad. Just the lug wrench under the back seat.”
“What?” He looked under the carpet, then bent down and looked under the van. “Christ. Here it is, underneath,” he sighed.