Double Eagle Double Cross, page 10
Charley shrugged in acknowledgment and continued to shovel poached egg and toast into his mouth.
“You guys don’t drink some types of soda pop either.” It was a statement rather than a question, an attempt to show she actually knew something about his beliefs.
Charley waved his fork as though it were some form of windshield wiper as he swallowed. “Old wives’ tale. Never trust old wives!” Then, before she could respond, he continued, “There’s no doctrine against soda pop. Whether it’s good for you or not is a personal health issue not a point of doctrine. Just tobacco, alcohol, tea, and coffee.”
Roxy lowered her chin and stared across the table at him. If she had been wearing glasses, she would have been staring over the top of them. “So do you think I’m sinning when I have a cup of coffee?”
The question didn’t take him by surprise because he had been asked that many times before. “No. At least not in the same sense as if it was me that had a cup of coffee.”
This brought the expected frown of lack of understanding. “What do you mean?”
“It’s the covenant.” He shrugged.
“The covenant?”
“I’ve made a covenant with God not to drink that stuff, so if I do, I would be breaking a covenant with God. So for me, it’s no longer a food issue. It’s a matter of personal integrity. You haven’t made that covenant, so it wouldn’t be the same for you.”
“Then why make the covenant in the first place?”
He took a drink of juice. “Purpose.” He shoveled more toast and egg into his mouth as though that single word explained it all.
“What do you mean, purpose?”
He swallowed, considering his answer. “We—you and I and everybody else—have a purpose in life, a reason for being here.”
“Oregon?”
He grinned, knowing she was purposefully misunderstanding. “Mortality. We can’t fulfill that purpose without making covenants.” He took a final bite of toast and washed it down with the last of his juice.
She held her fork in the air as though to make a point. “So it’s not really about the coffee.”
He gathered her plate and his own as he stood and started toward the sink. “No,” he replied. “It’s about much more than that.”
***
Jack stopped at a Flying J truck stop in Nephi at about eight thirty for a “fluid exchange.” While everyone else entered the store, Mac slipped around the corner near the adjacent Denny’s Restaurant entrance and quickly brought up Charley’s cell phone information in her contacts list. She had to smile as she remembered how Charley had loaded the information without her knowledge as he waited for her to rappel down into the Zion Narrows in an attempt to find and save Peter and her grandfather. She hadn’t even realized it was there until after Charley had returned to Oregon.
She tapped on the number then listened for the expected ringing. The rush of traffic on the nearby freeway made it difficult to hear, so she stood with one hand holding her phone, the other hand plugging her opposite ear. She wondered what Charley would think when he received a call from her. Although the call was making her extremely uncomfortable, her suddenly showing up unexpectedly with all the old people in tow made her even more uncomfortable. She felt the best thing for both of them was to at least warn Charley that they were coming. She was startled when, after only one ring she heard Charley’s voice.
“Hello, this is Charley Sawyer.”
“Uh, Charley, this is Mac,” she stuttered.
But Charley’s voice forged ahead, overriding her stumbling attempt. “Unless you want money; then it’s somebody else.”
Mac realized the phone call had gone directly to voice mail. She waited impatiently while Charley’s recorded greeting finished.
“You’re welcome to leave a message and take the chance that either I, or somebody who doesn’t admit to being Charley, might get back to you. Have a nice day!”
Initially, she was a bit offended by this cavalier greeting but reluctantly admitted to herself that she shouldn’t take it personally and that her grandfather would probably think it was funny. Finally, after just a moment’s hesitation, she decided to leave a message—and more reluctantly decided it needed to be the important information rather than the sassy retort in response to the recorded greeting. Nevertheless, she could not quite resist. “This might be Mac, unless you need money, and then it’s somebody else. And just in case you were hoping it might be somebody else, then this is a warning. Mac was assigned to do a quick research project in Coos Bay. The fearsome foursome decided to come along. This may be a chocolate situation.”
She hung up, pleased with her “coded” message. She knew Charley would understand who she meant by the “fearsome foursome.” And chocolate was a private code word for an emergency.
When she climbed back into the motor home, the conversation seemed to center around what snacks had been purchased and where their route might take them next. No one seemed to have noticed her slipping outside to make a phone call. Bill took over the driving duties for the next two hours, passing through Salt Lake City then west on I-80 until they stopped at a rest area in the Bonneville Salt Flats. Mac got to try driving the fancy rig from there until they stopped once again in Elko, Nevada. She enjoyed the change and simply listening to the buzz of conversation in the seats behind her.
Chapter 13
The morning had turned a bright blue, although a crisp wind was blowing down from the north. That was the way of the coast, Charley thought with chagrin. Your choice was either sunshine with wind or no wind with fog and rain. They piled into Roxy’s green Volkswagen. She wanted Charley to drive, but at least for now, he declined. Roxy pulled out on to the road and gunned the little car, zipping south past Driftwood Shores fast enough to make Charley wonder if maybe he should have driven after all.
After passing the junction with Rhododendron Drive, Roxy zipped around a turn then swerved to avoid an older car parked on the inside of the curve. A short, Hispanic woman stood near it, waving as though she needed help.
“Real great place to park,” Roxy muttered, irritation apparent in her voice.
Charley caught a quick glimpse of the car as they swept past. The trunk was open, and the woman now stood, arms at her sides, watching them in dejection.
“Stop!” Charley commanded, looking back over his shoulder.
Roxy slowed but looked at him with some confusion. “What? Why?”
“Pull over.” He motioned toward the side of the road.
She followed his direction but still seemed puzzled. “What are we doing?”
Charley motioned backward. “That lady looks like she could use some help. We’re in no hurry.”
“But—” Roxy began to argue, but it was too late. Charley was already out of the car and jogging back toward the stranded woman. With a sigh of exasperation, Roxy jammed the little car in reverse and began backing up in pursuit of Charley.
Charley could hear the whine of the small engine as Roxy advanced behind him, the crunch of the gravel as she pulled off the pavement, and the whoosh of another car as it swept past them. Charley slowed as he neared the parked car, partly to recover his breath and partly to assess the situation. He didn’t know why he had insisted they stop. It would have been much easier to simply keep on going, but today, as he had said to Roxy, they were in no hurry, and it just seemed like the right thing to do. He supposed it might have something to do with his recent conversation with Roxy about what it meant to be a Mormon.
The woman watched him with open curiosity as he approached.
“Do you need some help?” he called, noting the confusion on her face.
It seemed to take her a moment to comprehend what he was saying, then she gestured to her left rear tire, which was obviously flat. “Tengo una llanta desinflada,” she explained with obvious disdain at the entire situation.
Charley recognized it as Spanish, but his comprehension of the language was limited to a few words like taco, enchilada, and burrito, none of which were in her response. He did, though, understand her need. Smiling, he simply moved to the back of her car and began removing the spare tire and jack.
“She’s a maid at Driftwood Shores,” Roxy announced over his shoulder as he pulled the jack from the trunk of the car.
“Would you like me to change the tire for you?” Charley asked the woman but was met with a blank stare.
“I’ve seen her over there,” Roxy continued. “I think she cleaned my room.”
He held up the jack and pointed to himself then at the flat tire.
The woman smiled and nodded vigorously. “Sí,” she responded. “Por favor.”
That much Spanish Charley understood. He placed the spare tire and the jack on the side of the road while he checked to see that the emergency brake was set.
Roxy eyed the Hispanic woman suspiciously. “You know she’s probably an alien.”
Charley glanced at the woman. “You mean like a martian or a Kardashian? Nah. She’s Mexican or maybe the Republic of California.”
Roxy sighed in exasperation then lowered her voice as Charley lay on his back and struggled to place the jack properly. “I mean, she’s probably illegal.”
“Sshh. She’ll hear you.” Charley grunted as he scooted out from under the car, rolled to one knee, and began working the jack.
Roxy was silent for a moment as though she was thinking through his last comment. “She can’t understand us. She doesn’t speak English,” she whispered as though it was some sort of secret.
“Then why are you whispering?” he whispered back.
She stood next to him, her arms folded, studiously ignoring both him and the woman. “They should be required to learn English before coming here,” she said, louder this time, still averting her gaze from the woman, who seemed to be oblivious to the conversation as she stood nearby, smiling appreciatively as she watched Charley work.
“I think the local Indians said something similar when Columbus showed up,” Charley replied. He placed the lug wrench on one of the lug nuts and grunted as he twisted it loose. “You know, I heard they were going to put up signs at all the illegal crossing points on the border that say, English only beyond this point.”
“What?”
He grunted as he twisted the next lug nut. “But they would have had to print them in Spanish.” He moved to the third lug nut. “And that just seemed to spoil the whole point.”
Roxy folded her arms and looked up the road. “I think you’re making fun of me.”
“Would I do such a thing?” Charley’s voice was anything but convincing as he loosened the last lug nut and began twisting it off with his hand. “I’m just saying that we all do what we can do to make a better life for ourselves. She seems to be a nice lady who’s working hard doing the best she can do.”
“They’re stealing our jobs.”
“Do you want to clean rooms at a hotel?”
“No.”
Charley shrugged and went back to work.
Roxy turned to study the woman.
When the woman noticed Roxy’s gaze, she smiled, motioned toward Charley, and said, “Él es un buen hombre,” then motioned toward Roxy and with an even bigger smile said, “Usted es un arrogante poco moco.”
Roxy looked confused. “What did she say?”
“She probably said something like, ‘You have a very handsome friend.’” Charley pulled the flat tire off with a grunt.
“She did not!”
“How would you know?” He lifted the small spare onto the lug screws. “Just tell her thank you.”
“Gracias,” the woman said, nodding her head and smiling at Charley.
“Uh?” Roxy looked back and forth between Charley and the woman then muttered, “Thank you, I guess.”
This brought a beaming smile from the woman.
Charley quickly tightened the remaining lug nuts in silence. Roxy stood, arms folded, studying the road ahead. He was troubled by Roxy’s response to the woman and the unexpected outburst. He liked Roxy but wondered how she would respond to Mac, who was a mix of Anglo, Polynesian, and Navajo. Or how she might react to Mac’s grandfather O’Reilly Begay, who was full-blood Navajo, or to his friend Bill Washington, who was African-American, or to their other friend Jack LaCosta, who was Jewish. Of all of them, it was Jack who was the most questionable when it came to speaking English.
Charley finished tightening the last of the lug nuts and then lowered the car and pulled out the jack. He threw the flat tire, jack, and lug wrench into the trunk then slammed the lid. The garage that fixed the tire would put all the equipment back in its proper place. He looked at his hands, now dirty from handling the tire and equipment. Holding them away from him, palms up, he searched for a place to clean them, first considering his pants then searching for a viable alternative.
“Gracias.”
Charley turned, his dirty hands still held away from his body, to face the woman. Her face beamed in a broad, grateful smile. She offered a plastic container of wet wipes she must have retrieved from her car.
With a sense of gratitude and relief and a quick, “Thank you,” Charley quickly plucked two from the container and cleaned the grime off his hands.
When he was done, the woman took the soiled wipes from him and placed them back in her car. “Gracias,” she repeated over and over again as they bid her farewell and climbed back into Roxy’s car.
“See?” Charley grinned, turning toward Roxy. “Don’t you feel better after helping somebody out?”
Roxy looked quizzically at Charley, looked at the still-waving woman in her rearview mirror, then looked over her left shoulder to check for oncoming traffic. “I suppose so.” Although her voice sounded strangely resigned, it was soon forgotten as she punched the gas and the little car accelerated up the road.
Chapter 14
When they reached the junction with Highway 101, Roxy slowed and signaled right.
“No.” Charley reached with his left hand and gently turned the steering wheel toward the left-turn lane. “Let’s go north.”
“North?” Roxy looked at him in surprise. “I thought we were going to Winchester Bay.”
Charley grinned and shook his head. “Change of plans. You wanted me to show you stuff. The coolest stuff is north.” He pointed up the highway. “Thataway.”
So they headed north; stands of Douglas fir and Sitka spruce, rhododendrons, summer cottages, and small shops inviting the tourist trade flashed past in bands of light and shadow. The ocean came into view on their left, expanding as they rose from near sea level to over three hundred feet up the side of the headland. The vast ocean spread before them, small white caps dancing beyond the swells.
They stopped at Sea Lion Caves, the tourist attraction perched on the edge of cliffs that dropped precipitously into the sea. The souvenir shop was filled with plastic seashells and toy sea lions made in China, Japanese floats made in Mexico, and tourists babbling incoherently in English and Japanese and German and Texan. Charley paid for tickets, and they took the elevators down to view the vast sea caves through a plexiglass window, where their images reflected back at them. They pressed their foreheads against the glass and cupped their hands to the side of their faces to block out the light so they could see where the sea churned through the opening in the cliffs. The rocks were covered with sea lion excrement, and the odor bore witness that sea lions frequented the caves, but the sea lions themselves were nowhere to be found.
When Charley and Roxy made it back to the car, a parking lot attendant had affixed a bumper sticker attesting that, like the sea lions, they also had visited Sea Lion Caves. A quarter mile farther north, Charley directed Roxy to park in a small pullout area overlooking the ocean. There, on the rocks below, were the sought-after sea lions. Several dozen barked and sunbathed and surfed in the breakers. Another three-quarters of a mile to the north, Heceta Head Lighthouse stood prominently on the edge of the headland, a picture postcard in the bright morning sun.
From the turnout, the road clung precariously to the rocky bluffs 150 feet above the beach below, then passed through a tunnel that spit them out onto Cape Creek Bridge, a classic span suspended 150 feet above the gorge. They followed a narrow paved road that hugged the mountainside as it wound down until it curved back to the west and found its way back underneath the Cape Creek Bridge before ending in a parking lot at Devil’s Elbow Beach.
Charley paid the five-dollar parking fee, and together they walked up the broad path toward the lighthouse. The day was pleasant, and the tops of the large gnarled trees that guarded the path swayed in the breeze. Almost a quarter of a mile up the path, the pair climbed up onto a flat, open plateau. To their left, the ocean stretched out before them, the lighthouse still farther up the trail. Ahead of them was what appeared to be a white maintenance shed with green trim—what a sign proclaimed was a gift shop. To their right stretched a large rectangular expanse of well-maintained grass about two-thirds the size of a football field surrounded by a white picket fence. On the far end of the lot rested a fairly large, white, Victorian-style duplex with an expansive porch and a red roof. This was the assistant lighthouse keeper’s house. The building had been preserved and now served as a bed-and-breakfast.
“Come on. Let’s go see it.” Charley turned toward the house.
Roxy, who had been checking something on her phone, looked up and shrugged. “No. I’m good. Let’s go on up to the lighthouse.” She tucked her phone in her back pocket and turned to proceed up the path.
“What?” Charley questioned, exaggerating his astonishment. “Of course you want to see this. You asked me to show you stuff. This is good stuff. C’mon.”
Roxy seemed reluctant. “No. It’s okay.”
Charley was not to be deterred. “No. It’s not.”
“It’s probably locked up,” she argued.
“We can peek through the windows.” He took her wrist and started pulling her toward the house. “Come on.”
They walked the path near the white-picket fence then turned in at the gate. Crossing the spacious yard, Charley mounted the steps. Cupping his hands on either side of his face, he peered through the window. He could see a large living room outfitted with what appeared to be antique furniture. He could see no one inside. Stepping to the door, he reached toward the knob to see if the place was unlocked. To his surprise, the door opened and a man rushed out, colliding with Charley.
