"We can walk."
"It's a mile and a half," the waitress said, "and it's snowing, and she's seven. Earl will run you."
And that, apparently, was the end of the discussion.
* * *
Hector came with a wrecker that said *HECTOR'S TEXACO — WE FIX ANYTHING BUT A BROKEN HEART* on the door, and towed the Ford away down First Street with its back end in the air and its wood-paneled flanks streaked with road salt. Walt stood in the snow and watched it go, with everything he owned in it.
While they waited for Earl to finish the supper prep, Walt went to the pay phone by the restrooms. He put in a dime and dialed the operator and asked to place a collect call to a number in Rock Springs, Wyoming, which Jimmy had written at the top of the map. It was the pay phone in the bunkhouse at the company's man-camp, and it rang eleven times before someone answered, a man with a Texas accent who said, "Yeah?" and the operator said, "Collect call from Walter, will you accept the charges?" and the man said, "Hold on," and yelled, "BRANDT! PHONE!" so loud that Walt held the receiver away from his ear.
Then Jimmy's voice. "Pop? Pop, where are you?"
"Ogallala."
"Ogallala." There was a pause. "Good. That's good. You stopped at the place? The one I circled?"
"We did. Car broke down in the parking lot. Water pump."
"Oh, hell. Are you okay? Is Jo okay?"
"We're fine. Fellow says Monday."
"Okay. Okay." Another pause, and Walt, who had known his son for twenty-nine years, heard something in it. He heard the boy who used to stand at the top of the stairs. "Pop. Did you — the waitress there. Did you meet the waitress?"
"Lena," said Walt. "Yes. She gave me a hot beef sandwich on the house."
The silence on the line went on so long that Walt thought it had been cut off. He could hear, faintly, a radio playing in the bunkhouse, and men's voices, and the long hollow sound of distance.