“ACCIDENT AT GREENSTON NUCLEAR PLANT, No Danger to Community, Officials Say.”
Every time that headline from yesterday’s Los Angeles News flashed into her mind, Margarita—Maggie—Cruz gripped the steering wheel of her VW more tightly and assured herself that she was doing the right thing. It wasn’t as if she were in danger from the Greenston plant in the desert hundreds of miles away, but those headlines had been the convincing factor in her decision. Yes, it was the right thing to do, and hour after hour as she drove north of Los Angeles, she had felt more and more competent and more secure. Until now.
For the last hour she had been so intent on the changing countryside that she forgot to buy gas. The gauge said empty. She drove on, dreading the moment when the motor would draw on the last drop of gasoline and give up. She was driving on a narrow country road lined with tall eucalyptus trees and nothing else. Then in a clearing on the left side of the road, she saw a battered old sign with faded red letters: G-A-S. No, it wasn’t a mirage; it was more like a miracle. With a grateful sigh she turned into the run-down station, bumping over broken concrete and coming to a stop by one of two pumps.
A weary-looking old man in grease-spotted overalls appeared beside her. “Fill ‘er up?”
“Is it cheaper if I pump it myself?” It didn’t look as if he’d take a credit card and she was low on cash.
“All the same here, missy,” the man called, rounding the car. “Fill ‘er up?”
Maggie said yes, please go ahead, and climbed out of the blue VW. Good thing I didn’t splurge on lunch, she thought, staring at the pumps. Gas is almost twice as high up here as it is in Los Angeles. But I’m not complaining. When she had driven mile after mile without finding a gas station, she had begun to think that maybe being sixteen and a half didn’t make her that smart; maybe a trip like this was a little much for her. Now she felt better. She stretched and thought, Dad would be proud of me. I’m doing what is right for me. Oh, I’ll miss my friends, especially Mim and Lorena. I’ll even miss Ryan. I wonder if he was really going to ask me to the TGI June bash? Well, that’s history. Now is now.
The old man brought her change and said, “Where you headin’?”
“I’m going to Twisted Creek,” she said in as offhand an adult manner as she could muster.
“Twisted Creek? Are you sure?”
Her shoulders fell. “Isn’t this the right road?”
The man grunted. “Right road, all right. But no place for a young one like you to be going.” He circled the Honda. “Car in pretty good shape?”
Maggie stiffened. The Bluebird’s an absolutely great car. Dad said it was in super condition when he gave it to me. “Of course, it’s in good shape.”
The gas station attendant kicked a couple of tires. “Guess it’ll make it,” he said. “But last I heard that road was bad. Watch yourself.”
The old man’s words stayed with her as she drove up into the mountains. She began to feel shaky. This was the first time she had driven outside of Los Angeles. Still, last night she had poured over maps and written everything down; she knew exactly where she was going. So far, everything had been all right.
Even getting away from home this morning hadn’t been too bad. It was spring vacation, and her mom and stepfather were away on business. The only person she had to explain to was the neighbor woman who looked in on her. The hard part had been figuring what to say to her mother. She had sat staring at a blank sheet of paper for a long time.
She knew what she wanted to write: “Dear Mother, It was bad enough after the divorce, being without Dad, I mean. After a couple of years I got used to seeing him mostly on weekends, but now it’s worse. Because he’s dead. Three whole months and I still can’t believe it. Maybe you can’t help being away so much, but with both of you gone it’s awfully lonely. Sure, there’s been school, and I did have dinner at Mim’s house and a movie with Lorena on Saturday. But the good things are missing. Dad. Dad. Dad. I don’t feel that I’m part of a family anymore. Jase is a good enough stepfather, but I told you both how I felt about that condo in downtown L.A. and you guys went ahead and bought it. It’s a terrible place. All there is to breathe inside is processed air and outside, car exhaust. My vote doesn’t count, does it, Mom?”
That’s what she wanted to say, but didn’t. “Mom,” she finally wrote, “I’ve gone to Twisted Creek. Papacito said he’d be there if I needed him. He won’t mind. After all, he is my only living grandparent. I’ll drive carefully, I promise. Please, please don’t be mad at me.” Then she had shoved two more sweaters into her suitcase, picked up her paint box and favorite brushes, and left. Once she was out of the city traffic, she had relaxed. But now …
She swung the car sharply to avoid a large rock. The man at the gas station was right. The road was rotten. It was narrow and crawling with potholes. To make things worse, melting snow on the banks made it slippery, and there were no guardrails.
At first she drove through a narrow canyon where the highway, a river, and the tracks of a broken-down railroad crossed and re-crossed. After a while the railroad disappeared. The river, too, was nearly lost, dropping away well below her as the road climbed higher. The views were breathtaking. Far below lay broad valleys with distant shadowed mountains jutting above them. On the rock walls beside the road unexpected little waterfalls sprang from nowhere. But she dared give them no more than a quick glance. At every blind curve she tapped her horn, afraid of meeting another car. But there were none. Weird, she thought. I feel as if I’m all alone in the world. What if something happens to The Bluebird? What if it gets dark and I lose my way? And my cell phone’s useless up here. Her hands got clammy, her mouth, as dry as sandpaper. Maybe I’ll never get there. But just after sunset, with the sky washed with fading color, she rounded a bend to find miles of soft green meadows stretching out before her. Beyond them in a circle of snowy mountains lay the village of Twisted Creek, its church spire glistening like silver in the subsiding light.
It was dark by the time she drove through a dimly lighted Main Street. Other than an old sedan that chugged by her, the road was deserted. The sidewalks, too, were empty except for an old man locking the door of a hardware store. She came to a stop at the curb beside him and lowered the window. A blast of icy air hit her as she said, “Hi. Can you please tell me how to find 22 Pine Street?”
The man, a key in hand, whirled around and blinked. Slowly, he pulled a wool cap more tightly on his head. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Left,” he muttered finally. “Four blocks, then left again.” He turned, once more bending over the lock on the door. But as she drove away, she caught a glimpse of him in the rearview mirror. He was standing slack-armed, staring after her.
She had trouble finding Pine. For one thing, the street she had taken after her left turn was extremely dark. Her headlights shone on a lamppost or two, but none were lit. Nor were the buildings scattered along the way. When she had counted what she fervently hoped were four corners, she parked the car and peered at a signpost her headlights had picked out. Pine. Her stiff shoulders relaxed as she reached for her windbreaker on the back seat, pulled it on over her heavy jacket and got out. And then she stood trans-fixed. The night sky was unbelievable. It had become a shimmering canopy made up of a trillion stars. Of course. Now she knew from where the term star dust had come. In a moment, with the help of her flashlight, she walked carefully up the muddy shoulder of the road. What if he wasn’t home? The thought broke out from where it had been hidden all day. I’ll think of something, she told herself. Anyway, even if he’d had a phone, I wouldn’t have called ahead because he wouldn’t have let me come. “I’ll think of something,” she muttered to herself, “but right now, before I freeze to death, I’d better find his place.”
The houses on Pine were few, far apart, and set back from the road. At each one she stopped and read the name on the mailbox. By the time she found the one with the name Victor Cruz on it, her fingers were stiff from the cold. The house beyond the mailbox had two stories and was set back against a hill that seemed to be covered with pines. Their sharp, spicy scent reached her as she found her way to the front door and, not finding a doorbell, knocked.
“Come in,” a deep voice called, “come in. The door’s open.”
Maggie stepped inside, fighting back tears of relief. She was in a softly lighted entryway with a staircase to her left. On her right, a rectangle of light fell on the floor from an open door, spotlighting a rose-patterned blue rug.
“Greg, is that you?” the same voice called. “Come in.”
Maggie walked hesitantly to the lighted doorway. “It’s … it’s me, Papacito. Maggie … Margarita. I came to see you.”
The man who rose from a deep chair on the far side of the room was tall and lean and had a thatch of snow-white hair. His olive-brown face was bony and remarkably unwrinkled except around the eyes. He dropped the book he was holding and pulled off his glasses. His black eyes widened as he said, “Margarita? Margarita!”
Maggie drew in her breath. “Yes, Papacito, it’s me.”
“But how? Why? Where’s your mother?”
“I came alone. I … I drove.”
“You what?”
“I drove. I’m sixteen now, you know.”
He shook his head slowly. “That’s right. Well, let’s have a belated birthday hug.”
Eagerly, she ran to him and he folded his arms around her. Pressed against his chest, she felt safe again. Almost … almost … But this was her grandfather, not her dad. She pushed herself back.
Her grandfather gave her a long look. “Does your mother know you’re here?”
Her eyes moved from his face to the bookcase behind him, to the TV in the corner, and then to the chair on which he’d been sitting before she answered. “Not yet, but she will when she comes back from London. I left her a note. I’ll tell you all about it. But I’m awfully hungry. Could I have something to eat first?”
“Of course you can. Where’s my head? Anyone who suffers the tortures of the road to Twisted Creek deserves—” He stopped and grinned. “You really did it, didn’t you, Margarita? All the way up here. Well, come on. Follow me.”
In the kitchen he opened the refrigerator, turned to her, and said, “Señora Ramos made me some tortillas. Don’t suppose you’d want a couple of bean burritos, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I? Just let me get the icicles off my fingers and I’ll show you.”
She was seated at the table, a loaded plate in front of her when he said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t hear you drive up.” She told him where it was, and he held out his hand for the keys. “I’ll bring it up and collect your things.” In a few minutes he came in the back door, lugging her two suitcases. She jumped up to help, but he waved her away. “I’m going to throw a couple of blankets on the bed in the back bedroom,” he said. “Won’t take a minute.”
He’s nice, she thought. Just the way I remembered him. She had seen him a lot when she was small, and they had visited him when he still lived in New Mexico. But then came her parents’ divorce and, after that, her dad’s illness. And even though her grandfather spent a lot of time in Los Angeles during the last days of her father’s life, the little time he had spent with her had not been exactly quality time. Now, sitting in his kitchen, she felt exhilarated. She had made it! All the way up here. All by herself. And once her grandfather understood how she felt, everything would be okay.
When he returned to the kitchen, her grandfather poured himself a cup of coffee. While she finished eating, he told her about the new book he was writing and about Señora Ramos, who cleaned and cooked for him. Maggie kept waiting for his questions, but none came.
Later, as she followed him up the stairs, she said, “I haven’t told you yet why—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “But it’s late, and after your long trip, you must be played out. Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk.” At the bedroom door he added with an apologetic grin. “Only don’t expect me to be up before midmorning, please. I’m an owl. I keep late hours.” He bent over and kissed her cheek.
Maggie said goodnight and in a few minutes was sliding under the blankets on the big double bed. She stared at the dark ceiling, tired, oh, so tired, but somehow feeling good again. Once she had said to Mim that living with Jase and Mom had been okay until Dad died. Then after that she had felt as if she were living with shadows only, that the real people, the ones who truly knew her, had vanished. Mim had nodded and squeezed her arm, but she hadn’t understood, not really.
Maggie sighed, remembering. Well, here with her grandfather, things would be different. And he was right. She was too tired to make sense tonight. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she had to talk him into it. “But, Dad,” she whispered softly, “if he’s anything like you, he’ll let me stay.”