Deep in the Heart of Dixie

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  He made it as far as a truck stop in Scranton, Pennsylvania. By some rare stroke of luck, they were desperate for a bathroom attendant, even had a small closet of a room with a cot where he could sleep. It was unbelievable what pigs people could be in public bathrooms in ways they would never dare at home. Owen cleaned their filth each day and showered at the end of every shift, unable to stomach the stench that clung to his clothes and his skin. They supplied uniforms, a step up in clothing and he had a change on a daily basis. It made him want to spit, the level he had been reduced to thanks to the women in his life.

  On the third or fourth week—it was hard to keep track when all the days ran to each other, Owen was scrubbing the women’s bathroom when he noticed something black poking out from behind the garbage that was set in the wall. He put down his mop, pulled the bag liner out, and reached down, pulling at a piece of fabric until it came free and a dark puddle of material spilled into his hands. Looking closely, Owen realized that he held his wife’s dress. He remembered buying the thing for his mother’s funeral. He had thought it a strange coincidence that the label on the tag carried the same name as his wife, Laura Ray. She had wanted something else but he told her he knew what was good for her. The last time he saw it was when he pulled something out of the closet and threw a wadded up ball at the girl for Laura’s funeral. As soon as he earned enough money, he would complete his trip, he would find her, and when he did, that girlie would get a welcome she’d never forget.