Chapter 4: Take Me Home, Country Roads

I remember the drive home clearly – especially standing on the pavement of the Bell County rest stop, just off Interstate 35. The drive so far had been careful rather than hostile. We talked about gas stations, weather, and the merits of roadside kolaches. But we didn’t talk about the canyon. And we definitely didn’t sing any duets.

My phone was to my ear as I called a client. Charlotte was in the women’s room – the black tank in the Airstream was almost full because I had forgotten to dump it before we left the canyon village. I was parked in the trucking section and one of the drivers walked by – short, wearing greasy jeans and a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt. He was talking to me, saying something I couldn’t make out. I held my phone away from my ear. “I bet you’re calling about that tire,” he said.

“What tire?” I asked, perplexed. He pointed at the Airstream. In the right wheel well, the remnants of the front tire barely clung to the rim. Shredded. That explained why the trailer was pulling rough for the past 20 miles. “Fuck,” I said. The trucker grinned at me, then turned and walked to the soda dispenser.

By the time Charlotte appeared I had the tires chocked, a bottle jack under the trailer frame, and was busily pumping away. Naturally, the tire was on the sunny side, and I was already starting to sweat. “Oh no!” she exclaimed, looking at the wrecked tire. “What happened?”

“No idea,” I replied, watching the tire begin to leave the ground. “Hit something on the highway. I really need to get a tire-pressure monitor.” I had already loosened the lugs with a tire iron and now spun them off and hoisted the tire off the studs. In the front of the trailer, I loosened another bolt to lower the tire carrier, then lifted the spare. In another quarter of an hour, I was finished – and soaked with sweat. I found a clean T-shirt from the trailer and changed. “Would you like a cookie?” Charlotte asked.

Back on the highway, I set the cruise control to 55 and listened to the engine hum as we started up another one of the rolling hills that define this region. When we topped out, I could see for miles. An occasional flash of cream from an exposed limestone formation. Splashes of green – scrub oak, cedar – against the tawny grassland. The truck jolted a little as it hit an expansion joint, and one of the scores of semi-truck trailers in the center lane roared by us. I put my right hand to my cheek and scratched it, then put it back on the sun-warmed steering wheel. “Charlotte,” I said finally, keeping my eyes on the road. “I’m sorry about how things turned out. I’m sorry about that hike.”

Charlotte was looking out the passenger window, so when I glanced over, I couldn’t read her face. She had retrieved cookies from the back seat at the rest stop and brushed some crumbs off her jeans. “It’s OK,” she said.

I slowed to pass a stalled SUV, its two occupants standing next to it and pointing their fingers at each other. “No – it is not OK,” I replied. “That whole fiasco was – it was my fault. And it wasn’t just the fact I, uh, I forgot our Goldfish and Snickers. I should’ve been paying attention to you, not the stupid story in my head. I tried to make you see that canyon the way I do.”

She leaned back in her seat, letting the words settle. Her window was cracked open, and the wind lifted a strand of hair across her cheek that she didn’t bother brushing aside. Something about that made her look younger and older at the same time. “How is your knee, by the way?” I asked.

 Charlotte put a hand to it “It’s better,” she said. “I changed the bandage.”

“Let me look at it later?”

“Maybe.”

Another mile went by. Another hill to climb. Another truck passing us. “Charlotte?” I asked finally. “Yes?” she replied, now brushing away the windblown hair. She rolled the window up and the cab quieted.

I exhaled. “I just want you to know I apologize. I understand that what – what I did made for a thoroughly miserable day. I mean it.” I shot a sideways look at her. She was looking out the window again, then turned back to me. “That means a lot,” she said, reaching up to adjust her sunglasses. “I wanted to keep up. I tried. It just felt like you had a goal – a goal that didn’t include me.”

I gripped the steering wheel and ran my eyes over the gauges. “You’re probably right,” I said. “But there is an odd thing about the canyon. It’s not a mountain. There’s no summit, no clear objective.”   Charlotte looked at me curiously. “In the Grand Canyon, the point is to be present,” I said. “To be in the moment. There is no ‘there’ to reach. There is only ‘here.’”

It was true. When I used to climb, I would take photos on summit day but not much otherwise. In the canyon, my camera is out every second. I probably have seen the place more through a viewfinder than with my bare eyes.

“You were the one who was present,” I said. “Not me. I was trying to get somewhere.” She shifted weight, then turned her head so she could rest it against the seat and look at me. “It’s all right,” she said. Her hand reached out to my knee. “We’re all right.”

I took one hand off the wheel and put it atop hers.

Two hours later we were at my place. I braked the Ford to a stop, and little curlicues of dust rose from the tires. Charlotte took her glasses off and looked at me. “Thank you for the trip,” she said. “I mean that. Other than that one day, it was perfect.”

I unhitched the trailer and unpacked quickly. Dirty clothes to the laundry room; most of the food into the trash. Packs, boots, poles, the crates of camp and trailer supplies – all that went to an alcove in the barn. By the time I came inside, Charlotte was standing in the kitchen. She had already showered and was wearing clean denims and a white blouse. Quite a few of her things were now at my place. That put space at a premium, but I liked seeing her shoes in the mudroom, her clothes in the closet.

I jogged up the stairs, stripped off my dusty clothes and stuffed them into the hamper. Then I walked into the still-steamy shower. Fifteen minutes later I took in my hand the gin and tonic Charlotte had waiting for me – she had figured out my favorite pretty quickly. “Thanks hon,” I said, gratefully taking a drink of the fizzy cocktail.

She busied herself emptying the dishwasher while I watched her. Charlotte was a lot more organized than I was, and now, the house was neater than it had been when I was alone. As I sipped my drink, sunlight came through the living room window and made the carpet glow.

Dinner that night was simple. Cheese omelets at the kitchen table, washed down with some sparkling water and Cabernet. Charlotte finished her omelet and took a sip of wine. She studied me for a few seconds. “Thomas,” she said. I forked some egg across a puddle of A1 sauce. “Yes?”

She put her elbows on the table, rested her chin in her hands. “You were married once.”

My chewing slowed. “I was.” I swallowed.

She went on. “And it ended.”

I shifted in my seat and took a drink of wine. “It did.” I thought about Susan. Fifteen years ago. I thought we were young back then. And we were. But the bigger problem was we were not yet grown up.

“Have you ever thought about trying again?” She fingered a button on her blouse, then smoothed the fabric.

“I don’t know. It’s not…fun.”

Charlotte’s hands went to her lap. “What’s not fun, being married?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No. Ending one.” Then I looked at her. “What do you think it means?” I asked her. “To be married?” Her eyes widened a touch. Blue gray. “What it means…” she repeated.

“Yes.”

She picked up her wine glass and took a sip. “I think it means…connection,” she began. “Trust. Someone you can depend on.” She set the glass down.

“That all sounds good. A little romantic, but good,” I said, finishing my omelet.

“But that’s not all,” she said, then pausing. “Being close – to each other. Like we were in the trailer the other night.”

I remembered our whispers in the darkened Airstream.

I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I said. “All of that is important. But it’s just a start. There must be trust – honesty. Respect for each other.”

Charlotte sat quietly. “Do we have those things?” she asked.

Our eyes locked for a few seconds. “We’re trying to have them, I think,” I said. “But there’s a catch.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Sometimes you think you have those things,” I said. “Then life says you’re wrong.”

She thought for a moment. “Maybe this time life will say we’re right.”

I picked up my wine glass.

Yes. Maybe.

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