“Don?”
Mumbly, he said, “Don’ bother—”
June sat down in the only chair in the room, a chair with wooden arms and an upholstered plaid seat and back, and watched Don sleep. After forty-five minutes or so, she tried to wake him again, but he didn’t even mumble. She stood and gazed out the window; it was long since dark, and there was no moon.
After a few tears had run down her cheeks, June went to the large suitcase and found some cheese crackers her mother had shoved in at the last minute. She spent another half hour munching them slowly, then tried waking Don again. When that didn’t work, she got a glass of water, drank it one swallow at a time, then took dungarees and a sweater from her suitcase, changed out of the lovely nightgown, which she draped carefully across the back of the chair — the extra care was intended to contain her anger — and went out for a walk.
An hour and a half later, June came back to the room. She let herself in quietly. Don was not there. Feeling guilty, she went into the bathroom and took a shower. When she got out, she looked at herself in the mirror. It was very mysterious, she thought, that you didn’t really know who anybody was, not even yourself. “Serves you right, Don,” she whispered. Twenty minutes later he turned up.
His eyes were bloodshot. His hair was stiff and stringy, as if he’d been used upside down as a floor mop. She knew he was hung over, but she didn’t want to mention it. Instead she said uneasily, “Where have you been?”
He said, “You weren’t here.” She didn’t respond to that. He said, “I went for a walk.”
“Where?”
“Over to the Moon Shot.”
“But it closed at ten.”
“All I said was I walked over there. I didn’t say it was open!”
“Oh.”
“And then I walked around a while!”
June and Donald woke up early, even though Donald had a hangover and couldn’t open his eyes all the way. They dressed silently, facing away from each other, each not wanting to catch the other’s eye. They walked together to the office to return the key.
Finally, Donald said, “Sorry about last night.”
Thinking for a few seconds, to try to decide whether she was about to lie or be honest, June finally said, “Me too.”
Bertine was alone in the office.
June said, “Well, thanks. It was a — it was a really nice cabin.”
“Sure thing,” Bertine said, but her eyes were red and puffy and she dragged her feet. It took her several seconds to focus on her job. “Have a happy life,” she said. “Come visit again someday.”
Donald got behind the wheel of the car. June said soberly, “I guess they’ve been fighting again.”
From the back seat, Jennifer, who was seven years old, said, “Why can’t we stay at a Holiday Inn? They have a swimming pool.”
Donald said, “This is your mother’s idea. Not mine. I can think of a lot of better places to be.”
June said, “We’re having a nostalgia trip.”
Don Jr. said, “Well, it’s your nostalgia. It’s not ours.”
They pulled off Interstate 55 onto a deteriorated road that once had been Route 66, running parallel to the interstate. They bumped over potholes so crumbly they must have been unpatched for years. Ahead they saw two concrete islands, four big metal caps over ground pipes, and a shell of the old gas station, two oil bays inside still visible as long narrow depressions with a central hole for the hydraulic lift. There was no sign whatever of the Moon Shot Burgers and Fries. The motel still stood — twelve cabins with beech trees shading them from the summer sun. The cabins were painted white with red trim. The red enamel paint was peeling and the matte white looked chalky and cheap.
June said, “Look, Don, they’ve changed the name. Now it’s the Route 66 Motor Inn.”
“This is soooo bogus!”Jennifer said. But she was a nice child, really, and didn’t grumble when they stopped the car, even though the place didn’t appear to be very prosperous.
Donald said, “A Holiday Inn would be better. Let’s go find one.”
June said, “No.”
Don Jr., usually called Donny, said, “This looks weird.”
Donny was thirteen years old. They’d had a fertility problem between Donny and Jennifer, but fortunately nothing permanent. Donny was just starting to make his growth spurt. He hoped by next fall, when he went back to school, he’d discover he’d caught up with the girls in his class, most of whom had put on their growth spurt last year.
He’s growing so fast, June thought, studying her gangly child. She could have sworn those pants and the sleeves of the shirt fit when they left Chicago. That was all of six hours ago. Now his wrists stuck out an inch and his ankles an inch and a half. He’d gone up one shoe size a month for the last six months and everybody said feel started to grow first, then the legs. Thank God Donald was a hard-working man.
“Why didn’t you go to Florida or something on your honeymoon?” Donny asked.
“Well, partly we had never seen the country. Especially the West. And partly your uncle Mort had a house near Los Angeles that he was going to loan us for two weeks.”
“The price was right,” Donald said. “Free.”
June said, “We had this big old car that your great-grandfather gave us. You’d have laughed at it, Donny.”
“Yeah. I wish you’d’ve kept it.”
“Can’t keep everything,” Donald said.
“You remember your great-grandfather, Donny?”
“Not really. He used to ride me in his wheelbarrow, didn’t he?”
Getting out of the car, June said, “We took five days to drive to L.A. We saw the Painted Desert in Arizona, for one thing. And in Amarillo, Texas, we saw a real cattle drive.”
Jennifer said, “Big deal.”
Donny said, “Why not Las Vegas?”
“We didn’t have any money. You kids have been much more fortunate than we were, you know. Thanks to your dad being a good provider.” Well, perhaps he was a little possessive, a little rigid too, but maybe being solid meant you had to be rigid.
“We always hear that.”
“Well, we didn’t have any money, but we saw a lot of the wild West.”
Jennifer said, “That’s okay, Mom. You’re entitled to a life.”
“We took Route 66 all the way from Chicago to L.A. Did you know there was even a TV show once about Route 66?”
Looking at the potholed road, Jennifer said, “Route 66 isn’t here anymore.”
“Neither is George Washington,” June said. “But we still study him.”
All four of them walked into the central cabin, the one with the office sign above the door. Donald pulled out his credit card. He had three and was proud of them.
June took one look at the woman behind the cash register. “Why, you’re still here!” The woman was older, tougher, plumper, and more frayed.
“Do I know you?”
“You’re Betty — no, Bertha—”
“Bertine.”
“We were here nearly fifteen years ago. June 11, 1971.”
“Oh, my God. The newlyweds!”
Donald said, “Come on, Juney. Let’s get a key and go.”
June said, “Bertine, do you really remember somebody who was here that long ago? I mean, I remember you and your husband, but it was my wedding trip. Everything was important. You must have a dozen new people here every day.”
“Mmm, well, now that I see you, I sort of remember.” She hesitated. “Actually it wasn’t like every other day.”
“Why?”
“I might as well tell you. Pete was killed that night.”
“Oh!”June felt shock, even though Pete wasn’t anything to her, of course. Not really. She could hardly even picture Pete in her mind’s eye anymore, which seemed wrong. She ought to remember him. Handsome, she thought, but she somehow confused him in her mind with Robert Redford. “Was he in an accident?”