Savannah and the Notebook

Savannah stepped off the bus, shivering. “LAST STOP!” The gruff, bearded bus driver hollered, rather unnecessarily, Savannah thought. The other two passengers de-boarded behind her, a tall, John Wayne-esque aging cowboy with a white mustache, faded cowboy hat and “denim tuxedo” of a pearl-snap long-sleeved shirt, brass belt buckle and dark jeans. Cowboy boots, pointy, of course, Savannah thought. She always took notice of people’s shoes. You can tell a lot about people by their shoes. The other passenger made his way off the bus, also slowly, a portly man in his 30s, with dark hair, black jeans and black Metallica shirt. Metallica and a denim tuxedo, classic Wyoming, Savannah thought. He was wearing tennis shoes that had probably once been white, now rust-colored from the “red dirt” that permeated everywhere, covered everything in this part of Wyoming.

She could feel the bus driver’s eyes on her and she turned around. “ANY LUGGAGE?” Beard hollered, and she was suddenly thankful he had been quiet for the majority of the six-hour ride. “No, thank you,” Savannah responded politely. No luggage, indeed. She smiled to herself, sadly. She only had her little black notebook, her navy backpack from high school, her heavily-stickered waterbottle, and her old brown leather boots. Ol’ Trusties, she called ‘em, and she’d trade every other pair of shoes she had for these ones. In fact, she realized, she just did.

The bus was idling. John Wayne and Metallica started walking away in the afternoon sun that shone off the melting snow. “DON’T GET LOST” Beard bellowed, and Savannah realized he was talking to her. This tiny town had just one street, not a single stop sign or stop light, not even a bus stop or a bench. Just a Saloon, a diner called Bobcat Cafe, and a little corner store called Pretty Penny’s, that sold ice cream and souvenirs, according to its faded sign. Nowhere to get lost in this town. If you were here, you were already lost, she thought. Beard and his bus pulled away, leaving Savannah standing in a dusty cloud of red dirt. “Don’t get lost!” a drunken drawl echoed tauntingly, and she turned around to see to see two young wranglers laughing, stumbling out of the rickety wooden Saloon. She shook herself into action and marched toward the junkyard, ignoring them.

She maneuvered purposefully among old Honda Civics and old Toyota pickups, the kind they made when they still built trucks the size of cars, the kind you didn’t need a step to get into, the kind they don’t make anymore. None of the vehicles even looked drive-able, but it was a start. She had water, snacks, and herself. She just needed shelter. Now that she no longer had Shelton.

A tiny A-frame building stood in the midst of the junk cars, and the door-bell rang loudly, surprising her. A real door-bell, a golden tinkling bell hung on the door in such a way that it made a sound when opened. No machinery, no video camera, just an old-fashioned bell on an old fashioned door. There was no one inside, only a wooden desk with framed, faded photos, and a National Parks calendar from June 1998. It smelled dusty in there, and of cigarettes. Savannah wondered where she was going to sleep that night. Hopefully— “Can I help ya” a gravelly voice interrupted her thoughts as a wrinkle-faced woman appeared in a doorway, cigarette in hand. “Yes, please! Uh, hello. My name is Savannah and I would like to purchase a vehicle.” The cigarette woman looked at her warily and dragged on her smoke. “Pur-chase a ve-hi-cle, eh?” she echoed, placing a decidedly derisive stress on the words as if multisyllabic utterances were unheard of in these parts. Savannah made a mental note to say “buy a car” next time, and tried not to cough. “We-ell, George is out chasin’ cattle but let’s take a looksee” said Cigarette, and Savannah held the door for her.

Back out in the junkyard, a bright blue bus caught Savannah’s blue eyes. How did I not see that before? she thought. Remembering what she’d learned about negotiating, she feigned disinterest and gestured towards what appeared to be one the oldest of the antiques, a Model T Ford. She remembered to code-switch, and asked, “That a Tin Lizzie?” It worked. Cigarette nodded, took a drag and said proudly, “There she be!” Savannah had no idea what that meant, or what to do next, so she strode purposefully toward it. “Can I take a looksee?” Savannah heard herself say, and chuckled quietly to herself. That linguistics degree sure came in handy, she thought mockingly to herself. “Sure thing, little lady. 1923 Fordor Sedan, most ‘spensive kind they made, belonged to Ms. Pretty Penny herself. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, hoo boy! Ol’ gal’s daughter brought it over when Miss Penny passed, and she’s been ours ever since!” Cigarette seemed proud of the car. Not proud enough to take care of it really, but proud enough to have it. Like Shelton had been, of Savannah. She reached out and touched the metal frame, and was shocked. The static electricity —and the ringing of an old telephone — made her jump. Cigarette laughed. “Lemme go get that, youngin. You keep lookin, you tell me you find somethin.” At the phone’s urgency, Cigarette moved away quicker than her years seemed to allow, and Savannah was alone again. She shook off the shock, opened the driver’s door, and sat down. The leather seats were worn through and faded. Savannah placed her hands on the thin, big round wheel that protruded directly, almost rudely, at her. She pretended she was Miss Pretty Penny, richest woman in Sand Creek, Wyoming, in 1923. She reached below the seat, as if for a cigarette from her secret stash, and felt something familiar. A leather binding. Paper, no, pages. A notebook. Savannah tugged at it with her fingertips but it was stuck. No, hidden. It was sewed into a pocket in the seat that a mouse had chewed through. She heard Cigarette talking loudly, laughing, as though and old friend had called, not a customer. Savannah looked around quickly then pulled out her pocket knife, made one decisive cut, and freed the notebook. It fell into her hand as if a gift from God, a gift from Pretty Penny, a gift from herself. It was exactly like her own black notebook. Pocket-sized, simple, timeless, with a black cover. She wanted to open it but stopped herself and tucked it into the pocket of her jacket, right next to her own little black notebook. Cigarette emerged from the A-frame with a freshly-lit cig in her hand and a smile, looking to be in a good mood. Savannah, a bit jittery at her daring discovery, jumped and started jabbering about the blue bus. Cigarette informed her “George is askin’ $20,000 fer ‘er” and that she “ran and everythang.” Savannah stepped on the bus and was surprised to find it gutted inside. “Oh yeh, she ain’t got no seats or nothin,” Cigarette laughed. “Think someone was gonna live here—then they realized she was a bus,” she surprised herself with her joke, setting off a coughing fit. Recovering, she added, “Penny’s daughter got herself that ice cream shop, and a mo-tel too. Sure they got room for your lil’ ass!” Quite the comedian, this Cigarette. Savannah thanked her politely and headed to the ice cream shop. She treated herself to a scoop of Huckleberry and wandered around the cluttered shop looking at leather wallets, turquoise earrings, fishing lures and faded photographs. She stopped at one that caught her eye, a black and white image of two women, gloved arms around each other, laughing.

“That’s my ma.” The mellifluous voice startled her and Savannah turned to see a beautiful woman with long dark hair. Her cheeks flushed at the all-too-recent memory of telling -finally, decisively- Shelton that she was a lesbian, and that her ideal woman had long dark hair. That was one of the last things she said to him before he kicked her out and she got on that bus to nowhere. Well, not to nowhere. To here. To…her. Savannah looked into the woman’s gentle brown eyes. “She’s beautiful,” she managed, though she didn’t mean the woman in the photograph. The woman smiled. “I’m Annie. Daughter of the infamous Pretty Penny.” Savannah stuck out her hand awkwardly and Annie took it with both of her soft, feminine hands. Savannah’s face was burning, her palms were sweating. “I saw her Model T at the shop,” she stammered. Annie smiled at her and gently let her hands go.


“That so? You, um… find anything?” Savannah felt as though Annie’s beautiful brown eyes saw directly into her soul, x-ray though her clothes, into her pocket where the identical black notebooks from different eras sat together. How did she know? She couldn’t keep a secret from this beautiful woman. “I found this” she pulled the notebook out immediately, regretting it as fast as she did it. Where was her coolheaded code-switching, her negotiation tactics? Annie smiled and took the notebook. “Where was it?” “Under the seat.”Annie laughed and her laughter sounded like bells, like heaven. “Rumor in this ol’ town says my ma had a secret treasure. Ma always told me it was me, but….” Annie’s voice faded as she studied the women in the photograph. “I knew it was someone—er, something else.”

She opened the notebook suddenly, to the very last page, and read aloud, “Darling, meet me at Pahaska. Spring is now green. The eagle oversees.” Annie shook her head. “C’mon, what the hell, ma.” A jingle altered her to a customer and she hurried off, notebook in hand.

Savannah felt overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by all the somethings in this nothing town, by the stirring in her heart for this beautiful woman, by this mysterious note in this mysterious notebook. “Spring is now green. The eagle oversees….” Savannah muttered to herself as she crunched her cone and wiped the purple from her lips. She looked up and saw a taxidermied eagle above her. Proud but dusty, with intense yellow eyes and a wingspan that must have been six feet. She became aware of the shiny little silver eagles that dangled among the turquoise earrings. The photographed eagles among the buffalo on the rack of Yellowstone postcards. The faded eagle tattoo on the ankle of the overweight woman with old sneakers whose groceries Annie was bagging up. Goddamn eagles everywhere.

“Spring is now green….” does that mean money? Savannah wondered. She had a couple hundred bucks in the bank, enough to get stay in the motel for a few days, but not enough to buy that bus — if she had that bus, she could live in it, she could get away from this nowhere town…Suddenly Annie looked up and they locked eyes. Savannah could feel her face turning red and she busied herself among the eagles. There was even an eagle on the goddamn floor, carved into — “Hey Annie!” The beautiful woman held the door open for her portly customer, then strode back towards Savannah. “Hey, um…does this floor open up?” Annie studied Savannah’s eyes and again, Savannah felt like they saw straight through to her soul. They both dropped to the floor and pulled up the floorboard, rusty nails be damned. Indeed, underneath, in the red dirt, there was a box. With, believe it or not, a goddamn eagle on it. Annie opened the box and gasped. It was stuffed with dollar bills. Annie, the shopkeep, started counting it immediately. “How much?” “Twenty thousand….” “Holy shit!” Savannah burst out and immediately covered her mouth. “Sorry.” Annie laughed, eyes sparkling. “Sorry for what? For finding twenty thousand dollars in my shop?”