Maybe it was boredom; if she saw another cactus-like plant, she would scream. Or maybe she wanted to cast off her past, spewing it out behind her like the exhaust from the Mustang’s increasingly hot engine. Whatever the reason, Marjorie surprised herself by beginning to speak about her “yesterday.” About her mother, who could find nothing good in Marjorie and nothing bad in Marjorie’s brother. About Father, absorbed in business, hardly noticing his wayward daughter unless she’d done something terrible again. The time when she proudly brought home a 95 on a math test, and Mother had told her, “See, if you’d tried just a little harder, it could have been 100.” Being a redhead in a school where the blonde girls became cheerleaders.

Never fitting in. Never, ever, ever fitting in. Not at home. Not at school. Maybe not even on Planet Earth.

A sudden dewy mist rose in Marjorie’s eyes. Mama Mumu broke into her increasingly melancholy thoughts. “Your folks know you’re going to the Haight?”

“Nope. And they wouldn’t care, anyway.”

But even as she said the sullen words, long-forgotten, uncomfortable memories flashed through her mind. Father, laughing, as he threw his little Margie up and down in the pool during one of their Cape Cod vacations. Mother, calling the doctor at two in the morning when eight-year-old Marjorie had woken up, flushed and shivering and full of pink spots on her face. The feeling of her mother’s cool hand on her feverish brow; a good feeling.

Will they be upset? Will they try to look for me? Send out the cops? Will Mother cry? Or will she keep it a big secret, so she shouldn’t be embarrassed in front of the neighbors?

Mama Mumu broke into her reverie. “And what about the Jew hotel?”

“That… was different. They were nice, really nice. But I didn’t fit in there, either. Too many rules.”

Mama Mumu put a hand on her shoulder. “So babe, here’s what you do.” Unexpectedly, she burst into song. “If you ever plan to motor west / Take the highway that’s best / Get your kicks / On Route 66.”

The tears were blinked away into nothingness. It was a classic rhythm and blues song that Marjorie had always loved, and as she joined in, she felt the magic reappearing in its harmonies.

“It winds from Chicago to L.A. / More than two thousand miles all the way / Get your kicks / On Route 66.”

Crazy she might be, Mama Mumu, but Marjorie felt a burst of appreciation for her company. It was good to have someone to talk to. Someone to get her kicks with, as they drove endlessly on Route 66.

“L

et’s sit on the glider.”

Since their days as newlyweds, this glider had been Annie and Abe’s favorite spot for talking, speaking about the children, just enjoying each other’s company. In the Levines’ otherwise immaculately kept backyard garden, the glider, which had moved with them from Coney Island to Boro Park, was an aging anomaly: rusty spots peeking out of its many coats of paint, the squeak that no amount of WD-40 oil could silence. Abe had offered to bring a new glider from his father’s department store but Annie had flatly refused: “We’re gliding on our memories,” she’d declared.

Abe leaned back on the faded plastic-covered cushion, stretching luxuriously after a long day of work. Annie handed him an envelope.

He gave a delighted whistle. “Hey, why didn’t you tell me it came?”

“The boys read it at dinner. I wanted to share it with you out here.”

Abe read each word out loud, laughing uproariously at Mutty’s description of being dumped off the stretcher.

“Reminds me of the time—”

Annie cut him off and handed him the letter Mutty had written to her. Abe began to read but stopped almost immediately. “Annie, this is private for you.”

“It’s okay. Just read it.”

He read it once, then again. He looked directly at Annie, a soft warmth in his eyes. “Annie, you’ve raised a fine son. Almost as wonderful as his mother.”

Annie’s voice was low and serious. “Abie, I went with Moe today. To the Catskills. I met Dr. Sloan.”

“What?!”

The story came out: the shivah call, the visit to the NICU. The unfriendly nurse, little Emily with her tiny fingers and round dots of eyes staring out at a world that she would live to be part of.

“So you’re saying….”

“I’m saying, Abe, that maybe we should be challenging ourselves, like Mutty is. Maybe Hashem wants you to save His babies’ lives in the NICU. We have to do it responsibly, figure out if it will work for the children. Maybe—” Her voice faltered. “Maybe you should take the job and we should move to the Catskills.”

The glider came to an abrupt halt. “You would give everything up? Your friends, your home, the conveniences of a frum neighborhood?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy, Abe. I said we should consider it.”

“And what about your father? The hotel? And the boys… they’ll be in high school soon. They’ll have to live in a dormitory. Away from home. And you’ll miss all of your very first grandson’s milestones. Do you want that?”

Do I want this?

I love my home, my family and neighbors and friends. I don’t want to leave them.

But Abie. He needs this job. He thrives on adventure. And if he’s not busy, if he’s bored — what if his nightmares begin again?

The baby? I’m old. Too old. I’ll need help. Here, in Boro Park, we’ll have Abe’s parents. Papa. The hotel. There… I’ll be surrounded by strangers.

But there are other babies, whose lives my husband can save… like little Emily ….

“Honestly, Abe, I just don’t know.”

Abe jumped off the glider. “Annie, this is not a decision to make quickly. Let’s think about it. Talk about it. Mutty has leave soon, after basic training. Let’s wait until he’s home to make a decision.”

“And if Dr. Sloan finds someone else?”

“So our decision will be made for us.” His voice, like hers, grew low and serious. “And sweetheart, I know why you want to do this. But I won’t have you sacrifice your life for mine.”

IT

was in Tucumcari that the adventures really and truly began.

They’d left Texas behind, but so far New Mexico didn’t seem much different. Still hot, still dusty. Marjorie parked the Mustang near a weathered diner, its neon sign flickering an erratic welcome.

Inside the diner, the hum of conversation and the clatter of cutlery combined with the scent of grilled burgers and gasoline and cattle ranchers’ sweat: good sounds, good smells for two hungry travelers. They found a corner booth and ordered the usual: two burgers, fries, and Cokes. Marjorie pulled out the wad of cash she’d gotten in the Village from her bright orange bag. She handed a dollar fifty to the bored waitress and carefully placed the rest of the money back inside.

Four men in worn denim pants and dusty cowboy boots sat in the booth right next to them. Marjorie, who’d grown up on Hollywood westerns, was intrigued: real cowboys! They looked like they had stories to tell, tales of the open road and bucking broncos and maybe even a gunfight or two.

As the men noticed the newcomers, one of them, a lanky fellow with a weather-beaten hat, sauntered over. “Well, this is a sight for sore eyes. Where you ladies headed?” he drawled.

Mama Mumu flashed a smile. “Anywhere the wind takes us.”

The men exchanged amused glances and invited them to join them at their table. They introduced themselves as Pete, Jake, Hank, and Tom — cowhands from a nearby ranch, enjoying a day’s vacation from the tough job of herding cattle.

The burgers devoured, the Cokes — and the cowboys’ beers — sloshed down, Jake pulled out an old guitar from where he’d stashed it under the table. “Too smokey in here,” he said, standing up. “Would you little ladies join us for a bit of singing outside?”

Marjorie followed him to a wooden picnic table next to the diner. Jake started picking expertly at the strings, crooning a slow, melancholy song that carried with it a wave of longing and nostalgia and the hint of broken dreams. Marjorie swayed to the rhythm, lost in the sounds.

But it was when the tempo shifted into high gear, into faster-paced and lively melodies, that Marjorie really came alive. Flinging her orange bag to the floor she began drumming on the wooden table, faster and faster, laughing and singing and rocking to the music. The darkening desert sky, painted in shimmering shades of purple, orange, blue and gray; the desert wind embracing her in its warmth; the cowboys’ voices filling the air: This was what she’d been searching for all these years. Music, and nature, the company of good-natured, no-nonsense men of the earth far removed from the silly materialism of her suburban life. And, above all else, freedom.

The cowboy named Pete stood up, went into the diner, and came out with a pitcher of beer and a bowl of pretzels. The songs grew slower, the voices quieter, and finally one of the men glanced at a gold pocket watch. “Time to start heading back,” he said. Marjorie grabbed her bag from where she’d thrown it, and she and Mama Mumu bid the cowboys a cheerful goodbye.

“Next stop, Albuquerque,” Marjorie announced, as they returned to the Mustang. “Maybe we’ll bunk there for the night.” In the distance they could make out the darkening shadows of a mountain range; they were leaving the flat plains behind.

Night had fallen. They’d just reached the outskirts of Albuquerque, New Mexico’s largest city. “Let’s fill up the car before we find a motel,” Marjorie said. “That way we can get out of here early. And maybe we can make it to the Haight by tomorrow night!”

Another lonely gas station, another four bucks for gasoline.

Only… there were no four bucks.

Marjorie’s wad of money was gone.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 878)