Johnson Junction Read online

  Johnson Junction

  a novel

  j.w. DeBrock

  This novel is dedicated to one of the dearest women I ever knew -

  Joyce L. Benfell-Murphy.

  She, of the fabulous energy, who provided me wisdom of the ages in the briefest of times of existence, a time when all others held me in disdain.

  I love you always.

  I once lived in a house surrounded by woods, a nice ranch style home with an attached garage. I awoke one morning in mid-summer and went outside to find a very large spider had fashioned the most amazing web, stretching halfway up the side of the exterior garage wall down to a flower bed. The spider itself was remarkable, larger than a half-dollar tip to tip, zebra striped in black and white with tiny bits of yellow. The web was very large, nearly two feet in diameter. The weaving of the spider’s silk was ornate and precise, and I was in humble awe of its artistic prowess. He – or she – and the web were two amazing creations in themselves, and I found myself morbidly fascinated. I checked on the spider every day, noting its macabre dining pleasures, until the weather finally turned to chilly Fall and later to frigid Winter.

  At some unrealized point web and spider vanished without a trace as mystical creations often do.

  Johnson Junction lay poised, its web a remote but purposeful development, spread over the crossing of two major highways in the desert Southwest.

  1

  I’d been scrambling for months to save every dime I could get my hands on – which wasn’t much, most of the time. What income we had came from odd jobs – painting houses, striping parking lots. My husband was a hardcore alcoholic; daily he managed to drink a twelve-pack of beer as well as a fifth of rotgut whiskey – and yet I never saw him slur his words or display the usual characteristics of a drunk. His mental abuse, however, was refined to an art form. I was in my thirties then, skinny and rough from a harsh life, trying to raise the son we’d had some six years earlier. I had an old two-door Saturn that I’d driven for what seemed an eternity, worried that it was on its last set of tires but hoping that it would carry the boy and I just far enough to escape.

  One Fall morning he left with his brother who had found them a week’s worth of paying work. When you have nothing to lose, there is little to leave. I waited until they had been gone about half an hour, nervous sweat accumulating under my armpits and breasts, making sure they would not be back – and then packed the car with the few things I knew we couldn’t do without. The pit of my stomach was a complete knot.

  Bryan, my little son, asked few questions. His father was not his favorite parent. He busied himself with gathering his toys and books while I threw our few clothing items, some blankets and pillows, and what food I could scrounge into the rear of the car. It had back seats that folded flat and we filled the space with remnants of our lives.

  I left a brief note. Don’t look for us, you’ll get the divorce papers in the mail.

  The town we lived in was tiny, several miles to the Interstate. We strapped our seatbelts on and drove away without ever looking back.

  I had managed to fill the gas tank a few days earlier. Once we left I did not want to stop anywhere nearby for any reason – although I didn’t feel known locally, my husband and his brother were easily recognized, having grown up nearby in a fairly notorious family. We headed West and eventually found the sunset.

  How do people land themselves in regrettable situations? One choice leads to another, and very fine lines can exist between what seems a perfectly rational decision and a very poor one. There are a million shades of gray.

  We passed through the next neighboring states without incident. I’d managed to feed us, maybe not too healthily, and we spent our first night in a truck stop parking lot. I settled for a spot beneath an enormous computerized sign that lit the night sky with its own aurora, garishly advertising “Casino-In-A-Tent” and “BUFFET”. Inside to use the restroom, I bought Bryan chocolate milk, paying the cashier with loose change. We walked back out and settled in the car. As I closed my tired eyes, weary from hours on the road, soft flashes of artificial lightning lit my peripheral vision. Bryan just tucked his head between two pillows and said “Night, Mom. Love you.”

  It’s a scary feeling having that unconditional love at your side, wishing and hoping you can somehow make his life worth living and daring to dream he will be successful despite his upbringing.

  Many years may pass with winged messengers bearing blank pages before you figure out whether you were right or wrong.

  I’d chosen to leave in the Fall, hoping since it had always been my favorite season I might find luck somehow, somewhere.

  2

  About the time we crossed another state line, I started noticing the signs. Bright green and white, “JOHNSON JUNCTION” and “WORTH THE WAIT”. The first one we zipped past said 200 miles ahead. A number of signs stood soldiered in silent proclamation, every twenty-five miles at first and later every ten.

  “Mom, I never saw so many signs for just one place. They must have their own sign painter, don’t cha think?”

  I smiled. “Probably, Bry. Although nowdays, y’know, they do so much of that stuff with big sheets of vinyl and computers.” I thought to myself some of the signs were peeling and a little past their prime – maybe a real person did actually paint them.

  He laughed at the next one. ”Road Kill Ap-par-al? What’s that?”

  “It means tee shirts and stuff with, you know, that road kill design they put on them. Dead armadillos and such.”

  “Oh. Ap-par-al is tee shirts?”

  “Yeah, or hats, maybe doo-rags, you know. Stuff.”

  “Oh.” As we passed another sign he scrutinized each letter and image.

  About fifty miles out, my senses began to make me sweat by picking up a new vibration from the engine I’d been tuned into for so long. The dash gauges didn’t indicate anything amiss, but the pit of my stomach was an extremely accurate barometer. Bryan tired of watching the signs and immersed himself in one of his books. My eyes began a constant vigil of the road, the dash, the road, the dash.

  We passed the twenty-mile sign. “JOHNSON JUNCTION, SHOT GLASSES AND MOCCASINS.”

  I cringed as the engine hiccupped.

  Ten miles out, “JOHNSON JUNCTION – WORTH THE WAIT – GIFT MART – GAME ROOM – YOU’RE ALMOST THERE!”

  The hiccups turned into more of a choke. “Mom, something wrong with the car?” He fixed me with his blue eyes.

  “Fraid so, son. Guess we’re going to get to see what they got at Johnson Junction, after all.” Sweat stippled my brow as a couple of the gauges finally mirrored my anxiety.

  Late in the afternoon, as we crested a hill the structures came into view. The first delight any traveler was treated to was the enormous lighted sign perched on the roof of the main building – JOHNSON JUNCTION in gigantic block letters. I eased the little car up the exit ramp, pulled up at the stop sign, and looked beyond the two-lane crossroads for the parking. Car sputtering, we hitched with it across the road (fingers and toes crossed for luck) and eased our way into an unoccupied corner of their lot. I straightened us up between the parking lines as the car coughed and wheezed to stillness.

  I turned to look at Bry. “Well son, she must need a break. Let’s get out and stretch our legs and hopefully she’ll recuperate.”

  “Ok, Mom. Re-coop-er-ate.” He snatched his ball cap from the dash.

  I got out of the car and shivered as wind gusted a chill through me, belied by the brightness of the sunny and cloudless day.

  The buildings paired unlikely partners for the high desert upon which they’d been built. The largest structure advertised “GIFT SHOP – RESTAURANT” and was flanked by two separate concrete block buildings, each a dif
ferent brand of gas station. The main building reminisced of the 1960’s – tan slump block construction graced with huge plate glass windows banded by aluminum. A substantial awning zig-zagged over the front doors. Wonder if this was on the old Route 66, I thought silently. Green and white from the freeway signs continued along the sides of the buildings – perpetual “SALE”, “ICE CREAM”, “TRUCK PARKING”, “CLEAN RESTROOMS”. Whitewash coated the outer buildings, but afternoon sun highlighted peeling patches. The asphalt was rutted and pitted; fifty-five gallon steel drums, painted but rusting dotted the lot with contained refuse. There were no trees, no flower beds, no plantings, no rock gardens, not even a stray cactus. It had been advertising itself as a desert oasis – a mirage of highest caliber, to be sure.

  Route 666, more like it. I shoved one hand in my jeans pocket as I held the door open for my son.

  We entered the front lobby, two vinyl bench seats flanking a strip of worn pile carpeting once featuring a southwest motif. Ubiquitous tourist brochures leaned from a grouping of metal racks. A scattering of people milled through various aisles. I looked up and saw several signs – “Gift Shop >”, “Restrooms”, and “< Restaurant”. Kids never notice the seedy side of strange places; Bry looked quickly at me with a sparkle in his eye and said, “Can I check out the toys?” I smiled okay and we tentatively wandered toward Gift Shop.

  Quickly Bryan was adrift in a sea of cheap imports. I lingered at a glass counter surrounding a checkout and cash register, the clear shelves lined with an admirable assortment of southwest jewelry, turquoise and silver highlighted by tiny halogen lamps. I was captivated by a large squash blossom necklace, an unusual kachina design. As I stood in admiration someone approached me from the other side of the glass. “Can I help you?”

  “Oh, hi,” I said quickly. Smiling, I added “Probably not, just looking. That is one of the most beautiful ones I’ve ever seen.”

  She smiled back, a very pretty young Hispanic woman, gloriously pregnant and ripe. “Yes, it’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned across the counter as far as her belly would allow. “I can’t afford it either.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. Better go see where my son went.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “Lemme know if you need anything.”

  Bryan had indeed found a new treasure, and as I joined up with him his eyes met mine. “Can I?”

  I felt in my pocket for what was left of our stash. “How much?”

  “Um – five dollars.”

  I sighed, melted once again by his blue eyes. “Okay, I guess. But that is IT for now.” I peeled a five dollar bill from a dwindling supply and handed it to him, along with a couple of coins. Turning, I pointed to the pretty pregnant girl at the counter. “Take this and pay her, okay?”

  He grinned and went to her with his trophy. She looked up at me and flashed that beautiful smile again, white teeth and mocha skin, ringing his purchase on the register. I joined them at the counter. “Let me give you a bag for that, mijo,” she offered.

  Bryan clutched his sack and grinned. “Thanks, Mom.” I patted his shoulder. “Now I can use the can.” I laughed, along with the pregnant girl.

  “Okay, son, right over there, see?” I pointed out the restroom sign.

  “Kay, Mom. Wait here.” He thrust his purchase into my hands.

  The girl smiled and then looked at me. “He seems like a nice boy. You are lucky.” Her voice was soft and something about it struck me as sad. I looked at her face.

  “Yes, I have been very lucky. Considering what we’ve been through together.”

  “Things tough for you?”

  “You could say that. His dad has always been really rough on both of us.”

  Her features formed a knowing look. “Yes, senora, I do know about some things like that.” She and I sighed at the same time. “Are you just passing through here?”

  “Well, we were – however my car might not agree,” I said.

  “Oh. I know about that too.” We giggled together.

  “Say,” she said, “if you need some help, or maybe a job for a while, they might be looking for someone here.”

  My heart lifted slightly, knowing the meager substance of our funds. “Really? Do you know what kind of work?”

  She leaned over the counter my way. “Well, I have heard that one of the ladies in the office is leaving.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought much about this kind of place having an office.”

  “Oh, yes. They got a little office right in the middle of this building, here. Mrs. Waverly works there, with a couple other ladies every day. It’s where they got to count the money and all, you know.”

  “Oh.” I was beginning to imagine a little light at the end of a very dark tunnel. “Well if I was interested, who would I need to see?” Bryan returned from the restroom and tugged my arm for his package.

  “Washed my hands, Mom.” He held them up for approval.

  The girl smiled at us. “I think you could go in the restaurant, around the corner, and there is a window back there that says Post Office. Ask for Mrs. Waverly, I think.”

  I offered her my handshake, and as she touched me I felt awash with sadness. Puzzled, I thanked her and took my son by the hand.

  We passed through a portal that day. Unexpected, unwanted, and very nearly unbelievable.

  3

  We’d just headed into the restaurant when I stopped in my tracks and looked down at my son. “You know, before I talk to anyone here, let’s go back out to the car and see if she’s recuperated any.” I had a momentarily blissful thought of redemption.

  “Re-coop-er-ate. Maybe she ate something bad.” He giggled.

  “Funny,” I smiled.

  We walked out to the car, and Bry had to grab his hat as a gust of wind parted it from his head. “Whoa!”

  I unlocked the driver’s door and sat in the familiar seat. Looking up at him I said, “Now cross your fingers. And maybe toes.” He obliged me with a grin. I turned the key.

  The Saturn started up, but immediately an unfamiliar light winked on between the gauges. I looked at Bry. “Could you get me that little book out of the glove box? The one that belongs to the car?” I clicked off the ignition.

  He darted around the front and got in on his side, rifling through the little holder. He pulled out a worn booklet and presented it to me. “Here, Mom.”

  “Thanks, hon.” I flipped to the index and noted the page for warning lights. “Mmmm – that’s not good.” The light in question belonged to the alternator. “Crap.”

  “What is it, Mom?”

  “Well, I don’t think she wants to go any further today.” I stared out through the windshield. “Maybe I should go back in and see if anyone can help us.”

  Bryan put his hand on my arm, a loving touch. “It’ll be okay. I’ll go with you, maybe we can find one of those good sam-a-rittens you always talk about.”

  I laughed as I got out of the car, loving my son.

  We walked back under the zig-zag and headed into the restaurant. It was about a third full with diners and coffee drinkers. The same patterned carpet covered the faults of the foundation, defying close scrutiny. A long cafeteria lined one side of the room, booths following the other and skirting the old aluminum windows. Tables littered the central aisle. We reached the end of the rows, and I looked to my right for the window the girl had mentioned. There was a nook for the cashier of the restaurant, adjacent to a small and more intimate dining area. A few lighted alcoves graced this private dining room, and a small collection of colorful kachinas kept watch from their positions on the shelves. A little further in I noticed a small window punched through the wall, a room behind it littered with shelves. “Post Office Johnson Junction” declared a wooden sign.

  We went and stood in front of the window. “Hello?” I inquired.

  A woman’s voice responded, “Just a sec.”

  I looked down at Bry and we squeezed each other’s hands.

  “Can I help you?”
<
br />   I smiled at the woman. “Well, ah, I hope so. One of the ladies in the gift shop told me to ask for Mrs. Waverly, and that you might be needing some help?” My knees were just a bit weak and I shifted my weight back and forth.

  Her eyes gave me the briefest hint of disapproval as she looked at my faded jeans and wrinkled tee shirt. “Oh, okay. Just a minute, and I’ll get her for you. You can wait over there.” She pointed to the chairs at the nearest table in the private dining room.

  Bry and I sat down. I ran my hands through my hair to undo the latest effort of the outside wind.

  About ten minutes later, a door adjacent to the window opened, and an older woman came out. She was fairly tall and slender, with brown hair in a cute and stylish short cut. Glasses perched on her nose, and although her face was rather wrinkled, her beautiful smile as she extended her hand and said, “I’m Mrs. Waverly. How may I help you?” made me feel as though I’d stepped under a sun lamp in the dead of winter. Her blue eyes sparkled behind her glasses.

  We stood up and I said, “Hello, my name is Maddy Brown. This is my son, Bryan.” As I grasped her hand to greet her, warmth and delight flooded my being. Her energy was incredibly strong and very special.

  “Hello, Bryan.” She bent over and placed her hand on his shoulder. “How are you today?” Bry grinned, every tooth in his mouth shining.

  She straightened up. “What can we do for you today? Here, please sit back down while we talk.”

  We sat in the dining room chairs. I looked down at my hands, and then raised my head to face her. “Mrs. Waverly, to be honest, I’m kind of at the end of my rope. Bryan and I have traveled a long way to leave a very bad situation, and ended up here, and honestly, I don’t know where we’re going. I drove into your parking lot and my car seems to have developed a problem. And, well, I’m short of funds, we’ve been sleeping in the car, we’re hungry, and –“ I paused and looked back down at my hands as my eyes teared.