Chapter 10 – June 8, 1993 – Camille
It had been a few weeks since Tennessee.
We were making our way through Kentucky.
The trips had been short, as there were plenty of small towns to hop between Nashville and Lexington, and I was okay with that.
Spending more than a few hours in the car with Erich could be tedious, as he often didn’t humor me with my Q&A sessions.
Not to mention it was June, and the heat took its toll on us, even with the air conditioning on or the windows down.
If I were officially a missing person, I hadn’t heard about it.
Stopping at gas stations for snack breaks or sitting down in restaurants with the news on the radio or TV only gave us the typical headlines for the local crowd we were mingling with, usually nothing of importance.
Maybe my parents weren’t as worried about me as I thought.
Or I’d find a private investigator tailing me one of these days.
Castland, Kentucky, was slightly bigger than Norwald, Tennessee.
Only by a little. It was late afternoon on a Friday, and there were more people jogging or making their way home from work.
Erich and I couldn’t check in anywhere since it was still fairly early in the day, but I knew we needed to make some money tonight or we’d be sleeping in the car.
I hadn’t been that down bad yet, but Erich had already hinted that on off weeks he’d typically find a campground and park for the night.
“I have an idea,” I said as Erich pulled up to a red stoplight and hit the brakes, waiting for it to turn green so he could find somewhere to take me until we had a better idea of what we were doing. He gave me a side-eye as permission to continue.
“We can’t check in anywhere yet because we don’t have money, right?” The light turned green, and Erich continued to drive without saying a word. “Can we go to the bar early and have a late lunch? Or is that too much time? I really just want a greasy burger with a handful of pickles.”
Erich choked back a small laugh before flicking the turn signal. “You’re on your last leg of dirty dad money. If you want to go block your arteries, that’s your freedom to choose.”
I triumphantly pumped my fist as Erich hit another stoplight.
He huffed in response to the slow-moving traffic, his fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel.
“So that isn’t too early?” I asked, fearing my window of opportunity would be closing as he grew irritated with the number of lights and stop signs in the small town.
Erich shrugged, his hand on the wheel rising with it. “I’ll make the exception. Trade-off is you have to sit on my side of the bar the rest of the night.”
I considered, thinking I was about to feel extremely dense for asking my next question. “Why?”
“If we go in together, we go out together. Fewer questions,” he answered, taking the signal of the changing light to continue down the road. He hit the brakes, causing the seatbelt to catch my quick lunge forward as he swerved into the parking lot of the quaint bar on the right.
“Careful driving there, pal,” I scolded before loosening the seatbelt to massage my collarbone. “I’m not trying to go through your windshield.”
He flashed me an unapologetic half-smile as he parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt.
The bar we found was vacant, but the sign in the window was turned to “Yes, we’re OPEN!
” My mouth watered, thinking of the virgin Bloody Mary I was about to pair with my greasy hamburger and pickles.
I clicked the release button on my seatbelt, which very well might have saved my life.
I was quick to hop out of the passenger seat, the promise of food urging my feet to hit the pavement and start moving.
I couldn’t hide the pep in my step as I made my way to the dented metal door.
I took a second to look back and see Erich retreating from the driver’s side, spinning the key ring on his finger.
“Hurry up!” I called, my hand on the doorknob.
I was ready to experience what might be the best widow-maker lunch in history.
Erich didn’t take my command seriously as he continued at his walking pace behind me. He attempted to reach for the door, but I had already pushed it open and welcomed myself in.
The inside was surprisingly homely, though that might have been because I was growing used to the interiors of bars every night.
I could smell the fryer working through the swinging metal doors to the kitchen, and the bartender was counting cash in her till as I surveyed my surroundings for my perfect table.
I had my sights set on a table for two, illuminated by the afternoon sunlight in the corner.
It called to me with its caddy of ketchup and mustard and the napkin holder pushed up against the wall.
The bartender was a young woman, likely a college student home for summer break to make some extra money before the fall semester.
She was about my age, with thin blonde hair tied back in a lazy ponytail and a beauty mark above the right corner of her lip.
Her ears were pierced, with red gems twinkling as she moved her head.
She smiled at us, and I barely registered that she was welcoming us in as I quickly made my way to claim the table of my dreams. There was no need for my haste since we were the only two inside, but my excitement created a sense of urgency.
I pulled the chair out, planting myself on the green plastic cushion and grabbing the table to pull myself in.
I could tell my sunny mood was growing on Erich over the past two weeks.
He took a seat across from me, the amusement in his smile spreading to his eyes as he watched me grab a menu and skim it until I found what I wanted.
The bartender came over with a pocket-sized notepad, ready to take our drink order.
“Virgin Bloody Mary. Oh, can I order food now, too?” I asked, cutting off her attempt to ask how we were doing.
“Absolutely, what will it be?” she asked in a typical waitress tone, writing down my virgin Bloody Mary as I picked up the menu and handed it over. The sound of her pen writing my order on the notepad was music to my ears.
“Cheeseburger, ketchup, lettuce, tomatoes, extra pickles. Like, a handful of them. Please.” I added the last part as an afterthought as I held the menu out to the bartender, who took it before turning to Erich.
“And for you, sir?” Her voice cut through the light music from the jukebox, pen back on the notepad.
Erich didn’t look at the menu. I felt a pang of guilt, thinking maybe he was concerned we didn’t have the cash to pay for two meals, but he surprised me instead. “Coors Light. Chicken wings, buffalo sauce.”
“Side of ranch?” the bartender asked without looking up.
“Sure,” Erich said, and the bartender clicked her pen before shutting the notepad.
“Can I see your ID?” She followed the script. The polite smile plastered on her face was becoming almost painfully forced.
Erich took out his wallet, handing the driver’s license over to the bartender. She glanced at it before handing it back.
“Great, I’ll be right back with those drinks.” She sashayed off to fulfill her promise.
Erich went to open his wallet to stash his ID back in its rightful place, but I leaned over the table and held my hand out to grab it from him. “Wait, I want to see it.”
“For what?” He held it up and out of my reach, the thick plastic card mocked me as I continued to pinch my fingers in an attempt to grab it. “You see my face every day.”
“Curious.” Erich gave up and let me take it. I examined the front, viewing his serious mug in the center-left. “Why do you look like you’re about to choke out the guy taking your picture?” I poked fun at him before his arm rested on the table, palm outstretched in an effort to take it back.
The top had “New York State” in white over a blue header. Beneath it was his name: Zaleski, Erich. Below the name was a New York City address, date of birth: October 23, 1971.
“You got what you wanted. Hand it over.” His hand was still out in front of me, waiting. I half-heartedly tossed it toward him on the table, causing it to slide the full length. His hand smacked down in an attempt to stop it from landing in his lap, but he failed.
“You’re from New York?” I asked as the bartender reappeared at our table with a virgin Bloody Mary in one hand and a Coors Light in the other.
“Kind of.” His answer was short. He plucked the thick plastic from his lap and stuffed the driver’s license back into his wallet. The bartender set the drinks down at our table, and I grabbed the straw and unwrapped it.
“You need to get better with your cryptic answers,” I pointed out before I stuck my straw into my drink to take a sip. Next, I picked up the toothpick with the pickle, olive, and cheese cube—a little appetizer before the real food.
Erich silenced me with nothing more than a stern side-eye.
A warning. He picked up his glass bottle and took a swig before glancing around the empty room in an attempt to change the subject.
I hadn’t made him uncomfortable, but I was picking up on the implication that he wasn’t going to answer my questions.
“And a Z last name. I bet lining up in school was torture.” I continued, trying to see how far I could push the conversation.
Erich rolled his eyes in response to my button-pushing. He set the bottle down, and I watched the barely touched liquid inside swirl. “Drop it, Velma.”
I giggled at the Scooby-Doo reference, munching on the snacks that came with my virgin Bloody Mary. Tomato juice with pickles. Exactly what I wanted.
Before I could successfully attempt to irritate him, the bartender was back with our food.
It smelled glorious. The rich scent of grease came off the pile of French fries in the form of curls of steam.
I dug in the second she set the baskets down in front of us. “Is there anything else I can get you?”