He raised his brow and shook his head. “California, I’m guessing. I’m going to stay here awhile, look up some friends.”
Their food arrived. She asked for skim milk to add to her coffee. He caught sight of a familiar face behind the counter. The cook was someone he knew, but the name escaped him. He turned his attention to his omelet. The old folks finished their meal and shuffled off. Gloria and Russell ate in silence. He wolfed down his eggs and was attacking his toast when she asked him for directions.
“You can get out of town on this road here. It’ll take you to 94 north into Michigan. Got me from there. Do you have an atlas? I’ve got a pocket one you can have.”
She bit a piece of cantaloupe before answering. “No, there’s one in the car. So this goes straight to the highway?”
“Yeah, it’s about ten miles. Maybe more. Less than twenty.” He paused and set his toast aside. “Listen, I want to thank you for getting me up here, even though it was out of your way.”
With a dismissive wave she said, “That’s OK. I’m happy to help you out. Besides, it’s shorter for me to drive from here than it would have been to drive the whole way.”
“Well, anyway, there’s a gas station up the road—I’ll fill up your car.”
“OK,” she said, after a spoonful of oatmeal. “Thanks.”
He swigged the last of his coffee. She ate her cereal. When the waiter came around, Russell got a refill and asked for the check.
“So, you were born here?” she asked, dropping her spoon in her bowl and wiping the suggestion of a smile away with her napkin. He thought to tell her that this was, in fact, the very parcel of land that marked his entrance into the world, but refrained from informing her of the specifics.
“Yeah,” he began. “I haven’t been back in a few years. Still have good friends here. Family’s all moved away. It’s a weird place. I’m thinking I’ll get caught up with my friends, see what’s up, try to find a ride out west. Just see what happens. Who knows?”
The waiter brought the bill. Russell finished his third cup of coffee; Gloria left half of her first cup. A steamy parking lot greeted them as they stepped out the door.
“So, the gas station’s just up here,” he said, nodding in the direction.
She leaned close and whispered, “You have the keys.”
He barked out a little laugh and fumbled for the keys in his pocket. She walked behind him as he approached the passenger-side door. Before he unlocked it he stopped, turned, and kissed her.
In a flash she struck out in a roundhouse slap that connected with his temple, sending his glasses flying. He dropped her keys and went scrambling for his glasses.
“What the hell,” he spluttered.
She snatched the keys off the pavement and glared at him. “What do you mean? You tell me what the hell.”
He squashed his glasses back on his face. She opened the car door, grabbed his backpack and hurled it to the pavement.
“I’m sorry,” he said, going for his pack. “It was just an impulse.”
He picked up his pack and quickly scanned around to see if anyone was watching this scene. The lot was empty. They faced each other. To him, it looked like she expected something.
“Can I still buy you gas?” he tried with a weak smile.
“Goddamn,” she blurted, then slammed the door and cranked the ignition.
“No, really,” he said, reaching out a hand. The transmission coughed and the car lunged into reverse. He stepped aside and watched her leave. As he slouched over his backpack and pondered his next move, it occurred to him that she’d driven off with his new walking stick.
2
The hot pavement shimmered under a climbing sun. Russell sighed and looked down the road where Gloria had left, then strapped on his pack and walked slowly, trying to find the posture that most comfortably carried the weight on his back. That walking stick would be useful about now, and he regretted its loss. He’d already grown fond of it, as he did with certain objects. By nature he was something of an animist. He once had a bicycle that he would pat and stroke like a pet, and he had even been moved to hug a mailbox after dropping in a letter. Down the road he came to the small grocery store that used to deliver orders to his grandparents’ house. A sturdy old woman struggled out the door, a wagon filled with goods squeaking behind her. She stopped, kicked the rear axle and walked on, the wheels now rolling silently.
He meandered past the house where he’d grown up. Things had sure changed since his great-grandfather settled here after emigrating from Russia at the outbreak of the First World War, but the house he’d built and the neighborhood he’d built it in remained largely the same. It was a place of simple wood-frame homes and small garden plots. Russell was the third generation to be raised in the house, after his grandfather Charles and mother Liz, and he was the last. That was about all he knew of the history of his family, one that had disintegrated by the time he was aware enough to be curious.
What little he did know, he’d pieced together from fragments of stories that had stuck in his memory. He knew he was an accident, one that his parents did their best to put behind them. His birth did briefly unite Dick Pinske and Liz Czanderra in matrimony. The marriage, tenuous at best, didn’t last long. By the time Russell was five, his father had remarried and relocated out of state, dropping out of Russell’s life for good. His mother, about that time, entered graduate school at Northwestern, then began an academic career there. She told her parents that she didn’t want to uproot Russell, and she arranged to keep him with his grandparents indefinitely.
So his childhood unfolded in the kind indulgence of Charles and Alma. They kept him fed and in school and provided for him as best they could, with Liz sending money but showing up rarely. Russell was an easygoing kid content to hide away for hours with his books and the worlds they took him to. He cultivated his fertile imagination and developed a knack for making friends, talents that would serve him well.
Charles died when Russell was fifteen. Alma couldn’t cope on her own, so Liz had to step in. She moved back and began commuting the sixty miles to Chicago each day while Russell finished high school. She hated it in Door Prairie, and spent as little time as possible there. Once Russell was on his own, Liz beat it back to the city for good. Alma sold the house and went to live with her diabetic sister in northern Michigan. It was during this time that the deep friendships he’d formed nourished him in ways his fractured family could not.
The idea of going to college was appealing, but even with scholarships he balked at the expense. A friend told him about a culinary school in Cincinnati and he went to check it out, reasoning that kitchen skills would prove practical. He liked it there and decided to stay. The city seemed romantic to him, a well-worn place of sagging brick that stood like a natural outcrop on the eroded hills. There was something dreamy in the air of that river valley, and indeed the years passed as in a dream. It was nice while it lasted, but it had come to a dead end.
He wound his way in the shade of trees by the renovated marina and praised the town’s investment while making use of the newly built public toilets. The breeze came cool off the lake as he sat in the park under a leaning oak. From there he could see the extent of the development: rows of new condominiums and docks. He got up and walked
