36. Chapter 36
As if on cue, the world turned on its head.
The Panhead, his old reliable lady, started smoking. Not a lot of smoke, but enough to make him worry. As if the bike was choking on Whitlock’s words. Stanley Woodridge, your father.
Jason Stanley Young’s mother never said much about the sperm donor responsible for his existence, other than his name: John Smith.
Might as well have been John Doe. One in a million, not that Jason ever looked for him.
Still, any time he crossed paths with a John Smith he couldn’t help checking for a resemblance.
Stanley Woodridge. Not John Smith.
The Panhead sputtered into Springfield, Ohio, in shifts and starts.
At his usual motel in his usual room, he dialed his usual girl and propped his feet up while the phone rang in his ear.
And kept ringing. He turned the TV on and still the phone rang, until finally it ran out of rings and cut out.
Jason sat up, rubbed his eyes, and searched the tangles in his brain for the number.
He must’ve dialed wrong. Ann always answered.
In the drawer of the bedside table was a Bible—useless, in Jason’s experience—and a phone book, which would’ve been helpful if he knew Ann’s last name. He tried the number from memory again and almost fell asleep waiting for the rings to run out for a second time.
He ought to call his ma.
John Smith. Clever witch. He would’ve been able to find someone named Stanley Woodridge if he ever cared to try.
He flipped through the Yellow Pages for the number of the truck stop diner across the street.
He could walk there, for Christ’s sake, if his legs weren’t sore from riding and…
Billy. He’d take the Panhead if the poor old broad didn’t need a break.
It killed him to think his bike might not even make it that far.
“Hiya,” a woman said into the phone. “What can I getcha?”
“Is Ann working?”
There was a pause filled with the smacking of gum. “Who’s asking? This Rich?”
“No.”
“Jason,” she deadpanned. “Ann doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Is this Nikki?” He thought he recognized the twang, as if she hitchhiked up from Georgia or Alabama for better opportunities and ended up a truck stop waitress anyway.
She snapped her gum. “No.”
“Nikki, come on. I know it’s you, honey.”
“Goodbye, Jason.”
“Wait, wait! I’m having a really bad day, and I just want some company.”
“Listen, if my boyfriend finds out I’m talking to you, he’ll kick your ass. I’m trying to save you. He lifts weights.”
“Boyfriend? Christ, why did you all go out and get boyfriends?”
“We got tired of waiting around on you. Do yourself—” A cook hollered in the background for a waitress to grab the food at the window. Nikki hollered that she’d be right there, and said to Jason, “Do yourself a favor and move along. There’s nothing for you here.”
“Wait!”
She groaned.
“Theresa. Does she still work there?”
“She’s too good for you, sonny.”
“So, she’s still there?”
The line clicked dead in his ear.