Miles to Go (22 page)

“Good, thank you.”

“I have a Hershey’s chocolate bar if you want it.”

“That sounds really good.”

I retrieved the candy from my pack and brought it over to her. “Here you go. If you want to camp with me tonight, you can sleep in the tent.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the candy. She peeled the
bar like a banana. She took a small bite, then looked up at me. “So what are you running away from?”

“What makes you think I’m running away from something?”

“You’re a nice guy, you talk like you’re smart, and you’re good-looking, so there’s no way you don’t have something you’re leaving, like a girlfriend and a job. So you must be running away from something.”

I was impressed by her reasoning. “I
was
married.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding as if she understood. “Bad divorce.”

“No divorce. She died.”

She looked genuinely upset by this. “I’m sorry. What did she die of?”

“She was in an accident. Her horse got spooked and threw her.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“So am I. She was everything to me. I lived for her.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “That must be nice though, having someone to live for.”

“It’s nice until you lose them.” I handed her a bottle of water. She took a long draw and handed it back. “I think I’ll go to bed,” I said. “Like I said, you can sleep in the tent.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“Under the stars.”

“It’s cold out here.”

“I’ll be all right.”

She looked back over at the tent. “I don’t care if we share the tent. I trust you. Besides, it will be cozy.”

There were at least a dozen reasons not to share the tent, but the chill in the air was pretty persuasive. “All right.”

“Do you have enough for another sandwich?”

“Sure.”

I made her a second sandwich, then went inside the tent, undressed, and climbed into my sleeping bag. Maybe five minutes later she said, “Knock, knock.”

“You can come in,” I said.

She threw her sleeping bag inside, then crawled in after it. She climbed into her bag with her clothes still on. After a minute she said, “This is kind of nice.”

“The tent?”

“Yes.” More silence. “Do you mind if I pray?”

“No.”

“I usually pray out loud,” she said. “Do you mind?”

“No.”

She rolled over on her stomach and covered her face with her hands. “Dear Father in heaven, thank you for another day. Thank you for all that you’ve given me. Thank you for sending an angel my way tonight. I am grateful for Alan and his protection and the food and shelter he’s given me. Please bless him with peace and safety and all that he needs. And I pray for those who are being hurt tonight and please send angels to save them too. I pray that those guys in the truck won’t come back. In the name of Jesus, Amen.”

We were both quiet for a moment. She rolled back over. “Do you think those guys will come back?”

“No.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They were pretty crazy.”

“I hate to think what would have happened if I hadn’t been here,” I said.

“Same thing as usual,” she replied, and rolled away from me. “Good night.”

It was the last thing she said before she fell asleep.

I woke the next morning at sunrise. The inside of the tent was warm, and drops of water had condensed on the inclined vinyl ceiling. It took me a moment to remember why I wasn’t alone and who was sleeping next to me.

Kailamai was still asleep, on her side, lightly snoring. I dressed inside my sleeping bag then climbed out of the tent.

The morning air was chill and crisp, and the sun was just breaking through the thick canopy of forest, which was filled with the shrill single-note calls of an owl, invisible in the trees above me.

I had not fallen right to sleep. Instead, I had thought about the last thing Kailamai had said. “Same as usual.” I wondered about her story—her father (or lack of one) and a dead mother she claimed no one cared about, including her.

I gathered some cantaloupe-sized stones and made a fire pit, then walked around the area picking up branches until I had collected an armful. I could have used my propane stove to cook breakfast, but it was a cold morning and I wanted the warmth of the fire and thought the girl probably would as well.

I put three of the stones in the center of the pit, and when the flames were a foot high, I balanced my pan on the stones. A minute later I poured in the carton of Egg Beaters. I cut thin slices of pecorino and salami and dropped them across the bubbling egg.

Kailamai emerged from the tent about five minutes later. “Hey,” she said. I turned around. I had only seen her in the dark, so I was now seeing her clearly for the first time. She was about five foot three, thin, with a wide face. She was prettier than I had realized, in a classical way, with high cheekbones and a gentle, sloping nose like one
of the women in a Botticelli painting. Her hair was dark and tousled. She also had piercings I hadn’t noticed, three in each ear and one in her nose.

“Whatever you’re making smells good,” she said.

“A different rendition of what you ate last night. Omelets with pecorino and salami.”

“Sounds good,” she said. She straddled the picnic table’s bench, close enough to the fire to feel its heat.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“I was born hungry.”

“Grab that mess kit,” I said.

“The what?”

“The mess kit. It’s that silver thing on top of my pack.”

She lifted the kit. “This?”

“Yeah. Just bring it over.”

“Why do you call it a mess kit?”

“I don’t know. It’s an army thing.”

“I thought you said you weren’t in the army.”

“I wasn’t,” I said. I took the kit apart and spooned an omelet into one of the halves. “Here you go.”

She took the food, then sat down at the table, her back to the fire. “Thanks. I’ll say grace.”

I took the pan from the fire. “All right.”

“Heavenly Father, thank you for this food, and bless Alan for sharing it with me. Bless this food to our bodies’ health and us to Thy service, Amen.”

“Amen,” I said. I flopped the remaining omelet into my metal bowl, then sat down next to her. “You pray a lot,” I said.

“Before meals. When I get up. When I go to bed. Whenever I’m afraid. Whenever I feel grateful.” She smiled at me. “Pretty much all the time.” She took a bite of omelet. “It’s good to have a hot breakfast.”

“I wish I had some coffee to go with it,” I said. I took a large bite of omelet. “What are your plans today? More hitchhiking?”

“I guess.” She looked down for a moment, picking at her food. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk with you for a while.”

I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or not. “I walk more than twenty miles a day. Think you can keep up?”

“I’ll try.”

I took a bite and slowly chewed while I considered her request.

“If you don’t want me to walk with you, I understand,” she said.

“It’s okay,” I decided. “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

She smiled. “Good. Me too.”

After she’d finished eating, she stood holding her plate. “I’m going to see if I can find some water to wash our dishes.” She came back a few minutes later with a clean, dripping pan. “I found a water spigot.”

“Do you think it’s potable?” I asked.

“What’s potable?”

“Is it safe to drink?”

“I don’t know. It didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“Then it probably is. We better fill up.” I took a long drink from my canteen and then got two plastic bottles. “Where is it?”

“It’s over there,” she said, pointing. “Behind the statue.”

I filled my receptacles then came back and poured out one of the bottles on the fire, the ash and rock releasing a white cloud of smoke and steam. I went and filled it again and stowed it in my pack.

We rolled up our sleeping bags and Kailamai helped
me break down the tent. I put on my hat and sunglasses. When all was packed, I asked, “Ready?”

She slid her own pack over her shoulders. “I’m ready.”

We climbed the hill to the road and up to the fork. As we passed the Forest Service sign, I asked, “Have you ever seen the Mullan Tree?”

“Never heard of it. Is it worth seeing?”

I looked up the road where the sign pointed, then just kept walking. “Apparently not,” I said.

We crossed the interstate, then walked down the on-ramp to I-90. The road was still descending, and I pulled down the rim of my Akubra hat as the sun was in my eyes.

“I like your hat,” Kailamai said.

“It’s an Akubra,” I said. “I got it in Australia.”

“You’ve been to Australia?”

“About five years ago. I had a client from Melbourne.”

“That’s cool. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“I hear Boston’s nice,” I said. “You have an aunt there?”

“I just made that up,” she said. “It was just the first place that came to mind.”

“Where are you really going?”

“I don’t know. I thought that if I walked long enough I’d find something.”

“Where’s your home?”

“I don’t have one. Technically, I’m a runaway. At least on the state’s records. But only for another month.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’m a foster kid. I’ve been in the system for most of my life. My last foster home didn’t really work out, so I ran away.”

“Why didn’t you just go back to the state?”

“There’s no point. I’m eighteen in a month, so the state’s no longer responsible for me. It’s called aging out. I’m on my own.”

“Are you ready to be on your own?”

“I guess I’ll find out. The odds aren’t good. My caseworker told me that two years after aging out, there’s a sixty percent chance I’ll be pregnant, in jail, homeless, or dead. But I’m not going to let that happen. I want to make something of my life. I want to go to college.”

“Do you know what you want to study?”

“I want to be a judge someday.”

I nodded. “That’s a great goal. Everyone would have to call you ‘Your Honor.’”

A broad smile crossed her lips. “That would be awesome. Maybe I could be like Judge Judy and have my own TV show. Judge Judy doesn’t take anyone’s junk.”

“No,” I said. “She doesn’t.”

I liked this girl.

We had walked about two and a half miles when we came to the Old Mission State Park. The Old Mission of the Sacred Heart was built by Jesuit priests in 1853 and is the oldest building standing in Idaho. Even by today’s standards it’s an impressive structure, and it’s hard to believe these men built this massive edifice in such a secluded place without the benefit of a lumberyard or heavy machinery. What they lacked in technology they made up for in devotion.

The park was open to visitors and Kailamai and I spent an hour wandering around the visitors’ center. That morning I discovered two things about Kailamai. First, that she was funny.

“How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb?” she asked.

“No idea,” I said.

“Just one. But the lightbulb has to
want
to change.”

I grinned. “That’s pretty funny.”

She continued. “These guys rob a bank wearing gorilla masks. As they’re getting away, a customer pulls off one of the men’s masks to see what he looks like. The bank robber says, ‘Now that you’ve seen me, you have to die,’ and he shoots the man dead. The robber looks around the room. Everyone is looking away or covering their eyes. ‘Did anyone else see my face?’ he asks. An Irishman in the corner slowly raised his hand. ‘You saw my face?’ the bank robber asked. ‘No, but I think my wife might have got a wee peek.’”

I laughed pretty hard.

The second thing I discovered about Kailamai is that she could outeat me. I made salami sandwiches again and gave her an apple and a couple energy bars. She devoured it all. We walked all day and reached the Kellogg city
limits as the sun began to set. Kailamai was exhausted and I slowed my pace considerably so she could keep up. She never complained about the distance, but several times apologized for slowing me down and said if I needed to leave her I could. I didn’t want to. I liked her company. In some ways she reminded me of McKale when she was younger: bright, funny, and sardonic.

Kellogg is a peculiar town, divided by the interstate between old and new—the new being a ski resort with one of the largest gondolas in the western hemisphere.

According to town lore, Kellogg has the proud distinction of being founded by a jackass. Literally. The town is named after a prospector named Noah Kellogg. One morning in 1885, Kellogg’s donkey wandered off from his camp. Several hours later Kellogg found the animal standing next to a large outcropping of galena, a lead ore mineral that contains significant deposits of silver.