are you going to Eureka?â he asks.
âIâm not, Iâm going to San Francisco.â She didnât pay attention to where the bus went after that. She hopes he wonât ask why sheâs going to San Francisco.
John frowns. âNot on this bus, I hope. This bus goes through a few more small towns and then on up to Eureka. Iâm going to get a logging job.â
âNo, it goes to San Francisco first.â Her voice is thin, existing only in her mouth, as if her lungs have deserted her.
Now John smiles with half his mouth. The look is part pity, part righteousness. âYou can check at the bus station if you want.â
Anna Lisa leaves her soda in its ring of condensation and runs out of the drugstore, slamming her suitcase into a rack of magazines that she doesnât bother to pick up. Itâs late Saturday afternoon; the sign on the single window of the tiny bus station informs her that it closed an hour ago and will not re-open until Monday morning. But a yellowed schedule confirms that John is right: the bus sheâs on will snake through the Sacramento Valley and stop in Eureka, skipping San Francisco. The next bus to San Francisco departs Wednesday. She has enough money for a ticket, but not if she spends four nights in a hotel. The next bus to back to Fresno costs less and leaves Tuesday, which she can manage if she doesnât eat over the weekend. She reaches into her purse and touches the stack of bills curled like a snail in hopes of divining an answer. She canât believe her own stupidity. She replays her original ticket purchase over and overâher question whispered so low that the woman at the window made her repeat it three times.
Maybe, Anna Lisa concludes, she is not meant to go to San Francisco. Maybe San Francisco is for girls like the girls of 3-B, girls who smoke and wear black stockings. Destiny is laughing at her for thinking she could have a big, wild life. She should call her parents now. She can hear her motherâs voice: I donât know what got into you. Anna Lisa will repeat it back: I donât know what got into me, affirming her mother in herself, her promise to live a life more like her motherâs from now on.
But for the moment thereâs no leaving Lilac Mines. She checks into the first hotel she finds, the Lilac Mines Hotel, quite possibly the only one. As soon as she rattles open the door to her room with a skeleton key, she flings herself on the bed. Her sweat-drenched dress clings to her torso and legs, and the comforter is itchy, but her lungs have returned to her. A giant sigh leaves her body. She relaxes into the secure sleep of a decision made for her, if just for tonight.
When she wakes up, the room is dark. For a minute sheâs not sure where she is. Her hands grope for something familiar. They land on her watch. Itâs 10:15. Outside her window the moon is a copper penny demanding to be spent. This may be her only night away. She canât imagine sleeping through till morning.
Downstairs the restaurant-and-bar is sparsely populated, but somehow it glows enticingly. She thinks of saloons in Westerns, swinging doors, girls in ruffles and garters. This must be what those bars look like in color, when youâre in one and not just watching. She has changed from her wilted dress to a pair of slacks. Now her thighs donât stick together; she feels vaguely like a cowboy. She sits at a small round table in the corner, hoping the waiter wonât see her for a while, since she canât order anything. She touches the round slump of her belly, wondering how long she can go without food. Already she is hungry, but maybe her body will give up hope of being fed if she waits long enough.
Anna Lisa finds herself gazing at the broad back of a man at the bar. Heâs wearing a work shirt; his hand rests on a bottle of beer the same light amber as his hair. Mushrooming over the barstool, his hips are large for a
âIâm not, Iâm going to San Francisco.â She didnât pay attention to where the bus went after that. She hopes he wonât ask why sheâs going to San Francisco.
John frowns. âNot on this bus, I hope. This bus goes through a few more small towns and then on up to Eureka. Iâm going to get a logging job.â
âNo, it goes to San Francisco first.â Her voice is thin, existing only in her mouth, as if her lungs have deserted her.
Now John smiles with half his mouth. The look is part pity, part righteousness. âYou can check at the bus station if you want.â
Anna Lisa leaves her soda in its ring of condensation and runs out of the drugstore, slamming her suitcase into a rack of magazines that she doesnât bother to pick up. Itâs late Saturday afternoon; the sign on the single window of the tiny bus station informs her that it closed an hour ago and will not re-open until Monday morning. But a yellowed schedule confirms that John is right: the bus sheâs on will snake through the Sacramento Valley and stop in Eureka, skipping San Francisco. The next bus to San Francisco departs Wednesday. She has enough money for a ticket, but not if she spends four nights in a hotel. The next bus to back to Fresno costs less and leaves Tuesday, which she can manage if she doesnât eat over the weekend. She reaches into her purse and touches the stack of bills curled like a snail in hopes of divining an answer. She canât believe her own stupidity. She replays her original ticket purchase over and overâher question whispered so low that the woman at the window made her repeat it three times.
Maybe, Anna Lisa concludes, she is not meant to go to San Francisco. Maybe San Francisco is for girls like the girls of 3-B, girls who smoke and wear black stockings. Destiny is laughing at her for thinking she could have a big, wild life. She should call her parents now. She can hear her motherâs voice: I donât know what got into you. Anna Lisa will repeat it back: I donât know what got into me, affirming her mother in herself, her promise to live a life more like her motherâs from now on.
But for the moment thereâs no leaving Lilac Mines. She checks into the first hotel she finds, the Lilac Mines Hotel, quite possibly the only one. As soon as she rattles open the door to her room with a skeleton key, she flings herself on the bed. Her sweat-drenched dress clings to her torso and legs, and the comforter is itchy, but her lungs have returned to her. A giant sigh leaves her body. She relaxes into the secure sleep of a decision made for her, if just for tonight.
When she wakes up, the room is dark. For a minute sheâs not sure where she is. Her hands grope for something familiar. They land on her watch. Itâs 10:15. Outside her window the moon is a copper penny demanding to be spent. This may be her only night away. She canât imagine sleeping through till morning.
Downstairs the restaurant-and-bar is sparsely populated, but somehow it glows enticingly. She thinks of saloons in Westerns, swinging doors, girls in ruffles and garters. This must be what those bars look like in color, when youâre in one and not just watching. She has changed from her wilted dress to a pair of slacks. Now her thighs donât stick together; she feels vaguely like a cowboy. She sits at a small round table in the corner, hoping the waiter wonât see her for a while, since she canât order anything. She touches the round slump of her belly, wondering how long she can go without food. Already she is hungry, but maybe her body will give up hope of being fed if she waits long enough.
Anna Lisa finds herself gazing at the broad back of a man at the bar. Heâs wearing a work shirt; his hand rests on a bottle of beer the same light amber as his hair. Mushrooming over the barstool, his hips are large for a
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