Broken Promise: A Solomon Creed Novella. Simon Toyne
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blinked and looked up from his empty plate. He was back in the diner, the endless stretch of the plains replaced by the four thin walls of the cinderblock building.
‘A slice of apple pie, if I may. And maybe a cup of coffee.’
‘Steady there,’ Rita said, sauntering away. ‘You’re going to bankrupt me with all these outrageous demands.’
He watched her leave and saw her ancestry recorded in the blue-black sway of her crow feather hair, and the lean, sinewy stretch of her limbs, tight and supple like a bow string. She was strong and proud, but also bitter. He could smell disappointment and weariness on her as clear as the bacon grease sizzling on the hot plate in the kitchen. Her ancestor had refused to leave this place, digging in and clinging to deep roots perhaps in the vague hope that his fortunes might one day be restored in some glorious future. And here was his daughter of many times removed, still here, the blood link unbroken over all those years. There was some value in that, though Solomon could not be sure how much without reading the rest of the message on the cave wall, the part the photograph didn’t show.
Rita returned with a slice of pie and a mug of black coffee. ‘Need anything else?’
Solomon thought about telling her his thoughts but stopped himself. She wouldn’t believe him anyway and he could tell she was yearning to leave. She was young enough to start again and there didn’t seem to be anything binding her here other than family history. She wore no wedding band, and the photograph of a young girl pinned to the board by the cash register, a mini version of Rita, all smiles despite the gap in her front teeth, was possibly the reason she wanted to go, release herself and her child from the blood ties of tradition that bound them both here. Their people had been nomadic once, like all people had been. Maybe it was time to renew that tradition. So he held onto his thoughts and gave her a smile instead.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t need anything else. And thank you for the meal.’
The sun was still high in the sky when Solomon climbed into the oven of the big rig’s cab. He closed the door and felt the usual anxiety rise up at being confined.
‘Mind if I keep the window open?’ he said.
‘Nope.’ Earl settled in his seat and flicked on a small fan clipped to the dashboard. ‘Prefer me a breeze to the air-con anyways and it’s a damn sight kinder on the fuel.’ He twisted the key in the ignition and the truck’s engine roared into life. ‘Where you headed exactly?’
‘East,’ Solomon said. ‘Galveston, Corpus Christi, Houston, anywhere with ships going to France.’
‘What’s in France, a lady?’
Solomon opened the flap of his jacket and looked down at the label saying – This suit was made to treasure for Mr Solomon Creed.
‘The man who made this suit for me, hopefully.’
‘Hell, I know a guy in Fort Worth if you need a tailor.’
Solomon let the jacket flap drop. ‘I need to see this one specifically,’ he said. ‘Long story.’
‘Well there’s a whole lot of road between us and the sea. Happy to hear it if you’ve a mind to tell.’ Earl pulled out of the parking lot and onto the I-10, the roar of the diesels and rumble of tyres drowning out the high-pitched whine of the desert. Solomon looked north across the scrubby plain to a set of red hills that rolled across the distant horizon like an ocean of stone. Somewhere in that rise and fall was a cave with pictures carved on its walls, a natural document sealing a five-hundred-year-old deal. There was nothing else to see. The land was untouched, undeveloped. He thought about Rita with her Irish eyes, queen of all she surveyed, though not for much longer. He shifted in his seat to look back at the diner in the side mirror.
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