Chapter Three
Mike awoke at an intersection in town. Turn-of-the century buildings, most with newer facades, glowed slightly in the sun as it rose directly behind the Chevelle. “We’re in Dodge,” Rodger said, turning towards his son.
Mike knew of Dodge City, though he had never visited before. On their prior trip to Colorado, Rodger had taken what he called the “north route.” They were now on the “south route,” but Mike knew Dodge because a television show was filmed there. Or, at least, that is what Mike thought; Rodger pointed out when they watched the show that there were no mountains in western Kansas.
Mike considered the landscape as they cleared town. Things were indeed flat. He was surprised, however, at the tufted grass and short shrubs. The north route ran along farmland and ordinary pasture. This looked less hospitable, though the air was tanged with a bright essence.
Rodger, meanwhile, was pleased with his car’s performance. The first miles of the trip had been difficult for him, as always. Every sound from the drivetrain was amplified as he worried about the head gasket, water pump, distributor, clutch, and any other part which could fail. But as always, he calmed as he drove, reassured by the car’s smooth operation. Feeling more confident, he smiled at his son.
The two were acting out an established ritual. Their trips always started before sunrise, when the air was cooler—the Chevelle, like their clapboard house, lacked air conditioning. They would drive until sunrise and then look for a “greasy spoon” restaurant, as Rodger designated them. Another such spot would serve for lunch, and they were always in a motel by late afternoon. Rodger insisted on being off the road before supper.
Rodger saw a restaurant as they drove through Cimmaron. The pick-ups parked in front did not fully obscure an “open” sign and the name of the establishment, “Cimmaron Café.” “This must be where the locals eat,” Rodger remarked. He pulled the Chevelle into a spot along the sidewalk half a block down, in front of an unopened bank.
Mike was used to the attention he and his dad drew whenever they entered local proprietorships. They were outsiders, yet the reception was never unfriendly. Rodger had spent enough time on farms to feel comfortable around rural clientele. He also had short hair and dressed conservatively, not a small matter in 1969.
The two found an open booth and slid in. Mike turned his attention to the question of vinyl seating versus leather seating, with the further variation of clear plastic over vinyl seating. This was a plastic-over-vinyl place, and Mike wondered why people used plastic to protect what was essentially plastic leather, but not real leather. Mike did not ask his father, however; he had learned such questions were seldom answered.
A waitress brought water and menus, the latter similarly encased in plastic. She smiled at Rodger and asked if they were ready to order. Rodger gestured towards Mike, who always ordered first because he ate the same thing every morning: a bowl of Rice Crispies, half a grapefruit, a ham and cheese omelet, and a glass of milk. Rodger found something to order, the waitress smiled again, and she left.
Mike was old enough, and had travelled with Rodger enough, to notice certain patterns. Perhaps because his mother was on his mind, it now struck him that young women often smiled at his father. The thought startled him, mostly because it suggested something unknown, an adult kind of thing he did not understand. Recovering rapidly, he looked at Rodger and tried to analyze this new question.
To Mike, Rodger just looked like his father, but the boy tried to consider how other people saw him. Sitting back to gain an objective vantage, Mike examined the man carefully. Rodger was somewhat tall, but not overly so. He was also “heavy boned,” as Mike had heard it said, but not very heavy in weight. He had light brown hair, a round face, and smooth skin, with a hint of freckles around the cheekbones. His eyes were a grayish-green, which was somewhat unusual, but not as noticeable as the slight hook in his nose. Rodger would sometimes say there was Indian blood in the family, which always left Mike wondering how that had happened.
Mike knew his own appearance differed from Rodger’s. People would often remark, before Veronica left, how much he took after his mother. Mike tried to make a comparison with his father by examining their reflection in the silver syrup pots. The image was too distorted, however, and Mike’s spinning of the syrup stand this way and that earned a look from Rodger.
Mike quickly stopped, and he looked around the room. Directly opposite, he saw a small mirror framed in scroll work with a silhouette of a man fishing and the words “Cimmaron Insurance Agency” embossed at the bottom. Mike could make out himself and Rodger on either side of the angler.
Mike noticed what people had always said. His build was more like Veronica’s, slender and tall. His hair was darker and curlier than Rodger’s. But his eyes were his father’s, and his nose, though longer, bore the same shape. Mike ended his inspection as the food arrived.
When they returned to the car, Mike got in the back seat. This was his alternative spot on trips. Now that the light was up, he decided to do some reading.
Mike always had a box of Hardy Boys books on the floorboard, but this time he had a second box with school work. His trip to California, unlike the others, would cross over into the school year. Sister Ann, his Third-Grade teacher, had sent a few weeks of readings and assignments along, with detailed instructions for Rodger.
Mike examined the textbooks, Big Chief tablets, pencils, and crayons in the school box. Among the books was a Baltimore Catechism. Sister had explained to Rodger that the catechism was no longer part of the curriculum, but she had always found it helpful and wanted Mike to have a copy.
Mike picked it up. Three times the front cover announced its continuing relevance: the title, The New Saint Joseph Baltimore Catechism; its designation as the “Official Revised Edition”; and a blurb across the bottom which read, “Most Up-To-Date.” Mike opened the book and noticed the copywrite date of 1969. It’s up to date, alright, Mike thought.
The book presented something of a dilemma for the boy, much as Sister Ann personally did. Mike knew this was a traditional book—he had seen old copies in the library, and his uncle had one from when he was a child. Yet everything in Church had just changed. Similarly, Sister Ann was older and wore a veil, yet she lived in an ordinary house with other sisters who wore ordinary clothes. Mike couldn’t decide if his religion was old or new, or if both, which was the better part, or even how both parts could be real.
School would not start for a week, and it was a Saturday, but the Mike decided to look further. He wanted to see if he could tell the old parts of the catechism from the new. There were lots of words in the beginning, which Mike passed by, but then he saw a list of simple questions and answers, with a drawing of Jesus walking hand-in-hand with two small children. Mike read:
1. Who made us?
God made us.
2. Who is God?
God is the Supreme Being who made all things.
3. Why did God make us?
God made us to show forth His goodness and to share with us His everlasting happiness in heaven.
4. What must we do to gain the happiness of heaven?
To gain the happiness of heaven we must know, love, and serve God in this world.
The Chevelle settled as it passed over a slight rise. The tires nibbled at the road surface, and the engine sounded its balanced drone. Mike squinted into the wind blowing though an open window. Mountains would soon be in view.