Still Life in Utah

A woman is walking down a long stretch of empty road. She is dragging a little girl behind her. The little girl is clutching a faded Raggedy Ann doll to her chest. The doll has black button eyes, hand-sewn into place.

People are still finding seats in the theater. Murmurs of "Oh, excuse me, pardon me, oh, hello there," float about in the darkness. The voices seem detached from their owners, almost a part of the soundtrack.

A truck rumbles by the pair and doesn't stop. The woman glances down at her child, a worried expression on her face. It is impossible to tell how long they've been walking down this road. The child's eyes are red-rimmed and swollen as if from crying, but it could be from lack of sleep. The picture blurs for just a moment as the dust in the air confuses the camera. Heavy clouds on the horizon threaten rain. The woman tries to get the little girl to walk faster, pulling on her arm and quietly pleading. The child bravely picks up her pace for a few minutes, then slows down to her original trudge. The woman slows her own walk to match the child's, a resigned look on her face. It is obvious they will have to stop soon.

"Mommy?" I feel her stop behind me. The sky is growing dark quickly, too quickly, it will be night soon. Clarissa's hand feels slimy from sweat and dirt, and the for millionth time today I hate myself for dragging her into this mess. I could have left her with someone. There are plenty of people she would have been safe with, at least for a little while.

"How're ya doin', kiddo?" I ask, trying to sound cheerful. Her face is so pinched up and red from crying I have half a mind to turn around, right there, and walk the hundreds of miles through sand back. I could carry her a little ways, but not enough to make a difference.

The audience hears the truck coming before the pair on the screen does.

A few muffled cheers erupt in the darkness, followed by half-embarrassed snickers. Someone eats up and heads to the back to the theater, towards the snack food stand. Their silhouette blots the white of the screen for a second, just enough to be irritating.

The old green Ford pulls up to the woman and child. A large face with a furry beard attached pokes out of the window. "You all need a ride somewheres?" the old man asks. He politely turns his head before spitting a large stream of brown tobacco juice onto the road.

The woman looks down at the ground, trying not to look disgusted. "You going anywhere near Albuquerque?" The little girl has stopped crying and stares at the old man with wide eyes. He smiles at her, and she buries her face into her mother's stomach.

"I sure am," he answers. "Hop in front with me. I'm sure lonesome for some company." Again, that smile.

Something is not quite right here. I don't know what it is, maybe just general distrust of people, fatigue, maybe it's the way the inside of the cab smells like bad socks or fish guts or something in between, I don't know. But Clarissa's already leapt into the truck, and I can't make her walk any further. I slide onto the seat as well and put my arm around her. "I'm Charlotte," I offer, holding out my hand. "And this here's Clarissa."

"Frank," he grunts back, eyes straight ahead. He pulls out onto the road and points the nose of the big truck towards the salt hills on the horizon. "Charlotte and Clarissa," he repeats, slowly, as if savoring the sound of our names. "Pretty, pretty." He suddenly turns towards Clarissa. "What's your doll's name?"

"She don't have one," Clarissa answers, and it's true; Clarissa never names her toys.

"Doesn't have a name!" Frank's mouth freezes open in a tiny "o" shape.

"What am I supposed to call her when I want to talk to her? I can't jest keep sayin', 'hey, you, doll,' now, can I?" He shakes his head as if in bewilderment. I let myself relax, just a little bit. There is no music. The audience doesn't quite know how to feel about this scene, whether this is humorous or touching or something really awful is about to happen. The picture grows a little darker with nightfall's approach, the hills in the far corner of the screen turning red as the sun begins to set. The road weaves in and out of the sand dunes in an attempt to keep the drive through badlands desert interesting. Sporadic drops of water splatter the windshield of the truck as a storm fights unsuccessfully to be. Clarissa has fallen asleep. She leans against Charlotte, her head on a slow trek down to her mother's lap. Her eyes flutter open every now and then as the truck winds along the badly-maintained road, her dreams startled by the boulders and the potholes in the road.

I have seen too many bad movies. I have seen too many movies about strangers picking up hitchhikers and torturing them in abandoned cabins where no one will hear them scream. Frank seems like a decent fellow, can't be worse than my husband, ex-husband--just some lonely truck driver or dirt farmer on his way home, some good Samaritan that can't help it if he doesn't have the best stage presence. Clarissa doesn't seem to mind him so much. If Clarissa likes him, then I like him, too.

The woman lets her eyes close and is soon fast asleep. The two of them begin to slip in the seat toward the old man. He reaches over the woman and her child and turns on the radio to some country and western station. He turns the volume down quickly, leaving only the barest suggestion of music in the cab. The screen grows dark as the curtains slip out of the wings. Lights go on in the theater. The audience begins to clap, somewhat uncertainly, the snobby sophisticates who think they actually got the movie clapping loudest of all.