I started scanning for highway signs, looking for the closest rest stop. Of particular interest was the crossed knife and fork, the universal symbol for fatty foodstuffs. Coming up on the Tejon Pass, I took the Frazier Mountain Park Road where the Flying J promised numerous forms of relief: weighing scales, a pump dump, liquid propane, diesel fuel, a travel store, and overnight RV accommodations. The parking area was expansive, probably three hundred spaces, only a small number of which were taken. Most important of all was the Denny’s restaurant rising up in splendor.
I parked two aisles away from the entrance, locked the Mustang, and went in. I availed myself of the facilities and then found an empty booth. A kindly waitress brought me water, a menu, and silverware. Since I’d eaten breakfast a scant three hours before, I skipped that section of the menu and looked at the garish photographs of burgers. Most were alarmingly large; double-meat patties with cheese and all manner of folderol piled up in a bun. Feeling virtuous, I opted for a salad, knowing that before I left I could hoof it over to the minimart and stock up on candy bars.
When I paid my check, I asked the cashier to make change for a five-dollar bill. I’d seen a pay phone outside the service station and I was headed in that direction when a middle-aged man approached from the parking lot and tagged me by the arm.
“Is that your Mustang?”
I turned to him with surprise. “It is.”
“I thought so. I saw you pull in. My wife and I had a booth by the window and she’s the one who called it to my attention. We were just having a closer look.”
“I take it you’re a fan.”
“Yes’sum, but that’s not why I came looking for you. Are you aware you have a flat tire?”
“You’re kidding. Flat as in dead flat or low on air?”
“Come on and I’ll show you. I worried you might not notice it. You get back on the road and first thing you know, you’d be riding on the rim.”
He turned and headed toward the rows of parked cars and I quick-stepped to catch up.
“Where’re you coming from?” he asked.
“Bakersfield. I’m on my way to Santa Teresa.”
We passed through to the second aisle. His wife was standing by the Mustang and she sent me an apologetic smile, as though she felt responsible for the problem I’d been dealt.
He said, “I’m Ron Swingler, by the way, and this is my wife, Gilda.”
“Kinsey Millhone,” I said as we shook hands all around. “I appreciate your taking the time to let me know about this.”
They shared a similar body type, round through the middle with truncated extremities. Easy to see how their shared lifestyle and eating habits had created the symmetry.
“What about you? Where are you from?” I asked.
“Texas. This is our honeymoon. We’ve been married two days.”
There went that keenly observed conclusion.
Then I caught sight of my left rear tire. “Well, dang. That is flat.”
“Look here.” He pointed to a round metal circle the size of a pencil eraser between the sidewall and the hubcap with its tiny silver horse in the center. “Looks like a roofing nail, which is technically called a clout nail. Short shank with that wide flat head? I put myself through college working as a roofer. This is the type we used to fasten shingles or roofing felt. Nail like that isn’t but about that long,” he said, showing me with his thumb and index finger. “Pull it out, you’ll probably see a ring or screw shank.”
“Weird spot for a nail. How you think it got there?”
“My opinion, you’re looking at an act of vandalism. Somebody had to hammer this little fellow through your sidewall. You must have been parked in a bad neighborhood.”
“I guess I was,” I said. I thought about Ethan appearing between the two cars, his tossing something ever so casually into the front seat of his Toyota.
Ron Swingler said, “You want, I can swap that out for you, as long as your spare’s in good shape.”
“Thanks, but I can talk to someone at the service station. I don’t want to hold you up.”
Gilda spoke up, saying, “He doesn’t mind. Why don’t you let him give you a hand?”
“It won’t take fifteen minutes. Probably less,” he said.
I thought about it briefly. These were good people and I suspected the more I protested, the more they’d insist. Maybe their kindness would offset Ethan’s malevolence to some extent. “Actually, I could use the help if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Why don’t you and Gilda wait in the RV and I’ll come get you when I’m done.”
Which is what we did. Their motor home was parked one aisle behind the one I was in. Gilda unlocked the door to the RV and stepped in ahead of me, then turned back and held open the door.
“You want coffee?”
“I’m fine. I’m hoping to get home without making another stop. Coffee would go right through me,” I said.
The interior was snug: two bench seats with a table between, a tiny galley-style kitchen, and a bed that seemed to fill the front end. I wasn’t sure what we were going to talk about, but that wasn’t a problem because she had plenty on her mind. As we took our seats, she said, “Let me ask you something. Do you have kids or grandkids?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Listen to this and tell me what you think. Ron has a granddaughter, Ava, who’s seven years old. She’s all into figure skating, which she practices twenty-two hours a week. Her mom and dad—this is Ron’s son and daughter-in-law—are spending nine thousand dollars a year on lessons and competitions. Does that sound right to you?”
“I guess the discipline might be good for her.”
“I don’t know what to think. Seven years old and that’s all she does. Doesn’t read. Doesn’t play with Barbie dolls. She hardly ever goes outside, for Pete’s sake, and that’s all I cared about when I was her age. There’s something off about that.”
“I hear you,” I said.
“What’s her mother thinking is what I want to know.”
She went on in this vein long after my interest waned. I tuned her out, making polite mouth noises while I checked the wall clock behind her. I could tell she was processing the idea of keeping her mouth shut, which is generally a smart move though I’ve never mastered it myself.
When her husband finally opened the door and told me the spare was in place, I thanked both of them profusely. I didn’t want to bolt when he’d just done me such a service, so we chatted for a bit. I expressed my gratitude again and he waved aside my thanks. I knew better than to offer him money. He was clearly a man who enjoyed being of service to women in distress.
We finally affected our farewells and I continued on to the pay phone, where I piled change on the metal shelf, inserted coins, and dialed Henry’s number.
He picked up on the third ring. “This is Henry.”
“Hey, Henry. It’s Kinsey. Sorry I didn’t have a chance to call you earlier.”
“Where the heck are you? I thought you were on your way home.”
“I am but I had a flat.” I filled him in on my stop for lunch, wondering how far I might have gotten driving on a tire with a nail driven into it. No point in worrying about it now, so I moved on. “How’s Felix doing?”
“Not well. He developed a clot on his brain, so they had to go in and operate. Now it looks like he’s fighting some sort of secondary infection, which is more bad news.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Hard to know. William swears he’s on his way out.”