The Road to Terminus by Catherine Leggitt

Author:Catherine Leggitt [Leggitt, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mountainview Books, LLC
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

STRYKER

Stryker watched the scenery race by while the Packard sped through Tucumcari and into the New Mexico desert. They passed yet another big yellow billboard painted with a black jackrabbit. That made three they’d seen that day. Mrs. Crowley said it was an advertisement for a store in Winslow, Arizona. How many more miles now?

Soon they were rolling through the desert. Stryker curled up on the back seat and let her thoughts drift. Why didn’t Mr. Morelli want Mrs. Crowley to read the newspaper? He scared Stryker, but sometimes his eyes looked kind and she sensed his heart could be trusted like Mama’s friend, Uncle Harold. When Mama and Stryker lived in Uncle Harold’s apartment, he taught Stryker all about automobiles. Uncle Harold drove a terrific shiny black 1952 Cadillac Fleetwood with a gray leather interior. Soft as baby skin, Uncle Harold would tell anyone who admired his car.

Stryker turned over and pulled up her knees. With Sophia snug between her arms where no one could take her, she tried to relax on the sloping seat. Hard to imagine herself a princess in the back seat of this old clunker, but, oh, riding in that beautiful Caddy . . .

Uncle Harold was a great guy, except when he and Mama went to drinking. Then his caring eyes blurred and the goodness disappeared, a sure sign to run and hide until they slept the meanness off. Later, Uncle Harold would say sorry for scaring Stryker and offer her another ride in his wonderful automobile.

One day Mama packed up their few belongings and they left Uncle Harold’s apartment. Stryker never saw him again, no matter how many times she begged.

Stryker peeked out one eye. Mrs. Crowley might be dead except for the small movement of her cheek when her jaw clenched and relaxed. Probably mad or maybe scared. Hard to tell, because she couldn’t see Mrs. Crowley’s eyes. Mr. Morelli’s shoulders lifted and fell. Short breaths. In, out. In, out. He hadn’t said sorry for being mean to Mrs. Crowley.

Was Mr. Morelli a good man or a bad man? He sure was handsome in his cowboy hat. Mama said Stryker’s father came from Texas. Did he wear a cowboy hat too? Would he be handsome like Mr. Morelli? She didn’t remember her father, but she hoped he had a good heart.

What kind of heart did Mr. Morelli have? She couldn’t call him honest. In fact he lied a lot, but every so often he had that warmhearted Uncle Harold quality.

Not now though.

Mr. Morelli huffed and puffed. Mrs. Crowley clenched and unclenched. Like an ever-expanding balloon. Stryker dreaded the inevitable explosion.

Sitting up, she turned her attention from the adults to the unusual scenery outside. Peculiar round shrubs and twisted, stubby pines rather than green trees and flowers dotted miles of dry, mostly flat land colored in shades of brown and gray. Strange, curved-roof Indian houses whizzed by. Red rocks and odd shapes appeared and faded from view—all quite different from anything Stryker ever saw in St.

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