“Fifty miles to Bluewater, New Mexico,” Clay announced as Mike fished the truck key out of his pocket. “Maybe Uncle Clay’s still around there somewhere.”
“Tell me again about when he called,” Mike said as he pulled back onto the highway. He turned off the radio, which was spitting static as always in the mornings. “Maybe you’ll come up with something better than ‘Restaurant Hay.’ Just try to remember.”
“I’ve been trying, believe me. The connection was terrible; at least I couldn’t hear a thing. He was surprised it was me—he thought it was you. He said I sounded a lot older.”
“Well, we haven’t heard from him in two years.”
“He asked about Mom, probably he asked to talk to Mom. I thought since I couldn’t hear him, the best thing to do was to tell him all I could, so I told him how she’d just left for Guatemala.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“Oh, you know, how she got all fired up about Amigos. I said she was going to be giving used eyeglasses to people with bad eyes, and all that stuff. I told him they didn’t have any telephones where she was going, so he couldn’t call her there. I told him she wouldn’t be back until the end of August.”
“But what about him? Nothing about what he’s been doing? Just that he was calling from some place called ‘Restaurant Hay’?”
“It only sounded like that. Mike, you wouldn’t believe how hard it was to hear. It sounded like he was calling from Timbuktu.”
“Come on now, you’ve looked over that map a hundred times. There isn’t any town named that. You’re going to have to try harder.”
“Really, Mike, that’s what it sounded like.”
“Are you more sure of the ‘restaurant’ part or the ‘hay’ part?”
“The ‘hay’ part.”
“He didn’t mention the name of the state….”
“Probably he did, but I didn’t hear it.”
“Did you ever ask him to repeat the name of the town or the state?”
Clay didn’t answer.
“I just can’t believe, after we hadn’t heard from him for so long …”
Clay’s stomach was in knots. Mike didn’t understand, he’d had this same conversation with himself a hundred times already. If only—“Wait, Mike. I remember something else. Something about horses.”
“Well, that’s better. What was it all about?”
“That’s all I can remember—something about horses.”
“Say, that’s a surprise. A guy who’s been in rodeo half his life mentioning something about horses. But then again, it gives us something to go on. Every time we see somebody with a horse, we can show him one of those pictures in your pocket.”
* * * The foreman at the Bluewater mill told them Uncle Clay had taken off to do some uranium prospecting. “Your uncle didn’t take to punching the clock and working for wages. He got himself that pack burro and started prospecting. Moved on pretty quick as I recall. He was heading for Moab, Utah. Lots of uranium discoveries up there.”
Clay asked, “You’re sure it was Moab?”
“He wasn’t around long, but you’re curious about what a man who’s enjoyed some fame will do when he’s out of the money. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he knew what to do with himself. He was starting all over in life.”
“On to Moab,” Clay said cheerfully as he got back into the truck. “See, Mike? We’re hot on his trail.”
“Via Red River, New Mexico. Don’t forget about that. What’s the name of that band they keep talking about—Polly and the Wogs?”
“The Roadhogs.”
“Say, Clay, did you hear the one about the horse that decided he was fed up with the same old menu out at the barn?”
“No …,” Clay replied suspiciously.
His brother had a huge satisfied smile on his face. “Well, he decided he’d go into town and treat himself at a fancy eatin’ place. And what do you guess he ordered?”
“What?”
“Restaurant hay!”
The Studebaker’s old motor wasn’t hitting on all six cylinders. The truck felt like a bucking horse as they climbed into the mountains in the dark, into the pines and spruce trees and cool mountain air. One headlight was blinking in and out, but they made it to Red River, all excited because they’d been pushing for Red River most of the day and here they were.
Was she here too? Clay wondered. Was Marilyn here?
The Black Mountain Playhouse wasn’t hard to find. The music had already started, and they could hear it coming from down by the river. Their momentum carried them right to the big hall made of enormous logs.
A dozen kids were waiting in line, but nobody could get in until some people inside left. “It’s packed in there,” Clay heard someone say. “It’s because of KOMA. There’s people here from all over.”
They bought their tickets and waited in line. The band was playing good stuff, mostly right off the radio: “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” “Good Luck Charm,” “Duke of Earl.”
At last they were next and you could see into the dance floor. “These Roadhogs are pretty good,” Mike was saying. “Hey, Clay Pigeon, there’s just as many girls here as there are guys. Tonight I want to see you make your big move.”
“Yeah, sure, Mike,” Clay mumbled. He kept wondering if Marilyn might actually be inside.
“Okay,” the guy taking tickets said. Mike went on in, and Clay looked in one hand and then the other for his ticket stub.
He checked again. Clay started to fish in his pockets when he realized what had happened to his ticket. He’d been chewing on it. He’d absentmindedly stuck it in his mouth and turned it into a wet ball, like a spitwad.
“Hey, get a move on,” the guy behind him said, a guy with a greased-back ducktail.
“Really, I had one.”
The ticket-taker acted like he was a giant pain but let him go over and buy another one, then let him in.
Mike was waiting just inside the dance. “What’s been keeping you? Marilyn?”
Some things you just don’t tell your brother. Like how could you tell him you got so excited you ate your ticket?
Mike was looking around, and then he just up and asked a girl to dance. A slow dance—“Stranger on the Shore.” Then a fast one with a different girl. Mike made it look so easy, but that was Mike.
To Clay’s surprise he saw Mike thanking the girl after “Hey Baby” and coming back over. Mike didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t hard to tell he wasn’t feeling as good as he’d been on his way to Red River now that he was here. Sheila? Clay wondered. He’s missing Sheila?
Mike pointed out a girl and tried to make him go ask her to dance, but he wouldn’t. Not that way, not with your big brother pushing you. And besides, as soon as he did they’d play a slow one, he was sure of it. Slow dancing was torture, plain and simple.
“I think I’ll go play the pinball machines,” he said.
Mike shrugged. “I’ll see you around. I’m gonna go make a phone call.”
Clay played the pinball machines a long time, but he wasn’t any good. He couldn’t concentrate. He kept watching the door. It was getting late. The dance had to be about over. The music was so loud and he felt so lonely.
When he glanced back, there she was. Marilyn. Standing just inside the door with her brother, looking out across the dance floor toward the bandstand. The Roadhogs were starting into “The Peppermint Twist.” He could dance to that!
He fairly flew down the arcade and up to her and said, “Hi Marilyn.” The surprise in her face was perfect. “You wanna dance?”
The music was so loud, she probably didn’t even hear what he said, but she understood. In a second they were out there dancing. The Twist was so easy. You just make like you’re putting out a cigarette on the floor. Lead with one leg, keep putting that cigarette out, keep your weight on that foot, then shift to the other one. Unlike with those slow dances, you never have to worry about stepping on her feet. You just keep drying the small of your back with that imaginary beach towel. Hips going all the time, forward, back, up, down … hey, she was having a good time too, and her smile, well, she made you feel like the sun was shining on you alone.
“How did you—,” she asked breathlessly when the music stopped. “Were you just coming here? That was way back in Arizona where we met you!”
“We heard about the dance on KOMA. My brother thought it’d be fun. He heard your father say you were going to Red River. We just took a chance.”
She smiled. “Dad said your mother is in Guatemala for the summer. Is that true?”
“Sure is.”
“What about your dad? Is he there too?”
“My father died a long time ago, in the Korean War. ”
“I’m sorry.”
“Last dance,” the band was saying, and the music began soft and slow as the lights went way down. Clay recognized the song—“Sealed with a Kiss.” A slow one, way too slow! What was he going to do now!
She seemed to be waiting for him, and she was swaying a little with the music. Everyone else on the floor was starting to dance. It’s now or never, he thought. His hands barely seemed to belong to him as one met her hand and the other closed behind the small of her back.
He would be safe if he barely shuffled his feet. He would get by. He thought he’d gone to heaven she was so pretty.
Clay rested his cheek in her hair. Tropical flowers. He’d never forget that scent. “I want to get your address,” he whispered. “I’d like to write you about our trip.”
“Sure,” she said. “It would be fun to get a postcard from one of those places you mentioned.”
Halfway through the song he brought her in closer and she held him tight in return. As the music was fading he glanced up and noticed, under the light by the door, her brother waiting and his brother smiling.