Holland Suggestions (7 page)

I nodded. “You’re going to…Athens, did you say?”

“That’ll do. At least till I get a job and make some money to get me back to California.”

“That your home?”

“I can get by there. I’ve got friends.”

A long time passed before either of us spoke again. She was not going to tell me her life story and that was just as well. We were getting close to Athens now; there were some houses and lights and a gas station, a grocery and more houses. I looked over at her, but she was staring out at the rain-spattered darkness.

“Anywhere in particular?” I said.

“No.” She sighed. “One place is as good as another, I guess.” She turned and smiled a sad, strained smile. “Are you going on?”

“Yes.”

“Far?”

“I’m not sure. I’m on vacation; just driving to see the country. But yes, I’ll be on Route Fifty for a while yet.”

“Any chance you’d take me to Cincinnati?—if you’re going that far, I mean.”

I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not a fugitive, if that’s still bothering you. I just want to get away from here, from this whole part of the country, you know? I’m afraid Athens might not be far enough—or big enough.”

“It still sounds sinister. Look, miss, it’s just my vacation; I’m not James Bond or anyone like that. I just don’t want to get mixed up in something I don’t understand.”

“I’m leaving my husband. It’s as simple as that.”

“And that’s why you have to leave at four o’clock in the middle of a storm?”

“Yes, now, while he’s still sleeping it off from last night I just reached the end of my rope with him, you know?”

I didn’t know, but she was into it now and I figured she would tell me the rest

“He’s just a mean, rotten bastard and I finally had enough. Haven’t you ever known anybody who’s just twisted and ugly inside?”

I started to say no, I never had, but then I remembered Vivian and I didn’t say anything. That seemed to do it for her; I would have to take her or leave her on that basis. I drove through Athens without stopping, and when we were once more on the open road she relaxed and began to breathe easier. Again, a long time passed between words. I watched her occasionally out of the corner of my eye, but if she noticed the surveillance she did not seem to mind it. Soon her eyes closed and her breathing became deep and regular. I thought she was asleep but she said, “What’s your name?”

I told her.

“I’m Amy. Thanks for not putting me out.”

“Sure. I’ll take you to Cincinnati if that’ll be any help.”

“How old are you?”

I found the question surprising, but I answered it: “Thirty-seven.”

“You don’t look thirty-seven. I’m twenty-two.”

I looked at her. “Come to think of it, you don’t look twenty-two.”

“I guess that makes us even.”

I found this new line of talk disturbing, and I decided to pursue it. “Not quite even. Listen, do you have some ID with you?”

“What for? You’re not a cop, are you?”

“No, but I’m getting bad vibrations. There are laws about transporting minors.”

“Oh Christ; look, I’m not a minor.”

“Do you have a driver’s license?”

“No.” She looked at me for a long time, waiting for my reaction. “Goddamn, you’re a worrier,” she said at last. “Do you want me to get out?”

“I might; we’ll see. I will take you to the next big town, anyway.”

“I appreciate that. You don’t mind if I rest now, do you?”

Her voice was cold. She leaned back and closed her eyes; her breathing became very heavy again and I wondered if she was asleep. I adjusted my rear-view mirror downward and to the right, bringing her face into sharp focus with my line of vision. She was nice-looking. There was no telling if she was really of age, so somewhere along the line I would have to make that judgment for myself. In this position she looked all of twenty-two, but then she shifted and the soft dashboard light offered a profile that looked almost babyish. Until she shifted again she might have been no older than my Judy. That illusion, the rain, and the wind vanished almost simultaneously. I turned on the radio, softly, so I wouldn’t wake my passenger, but all I could find was some morning gospel hour and a really crappy country-music show. I turned it off and drove in silence until the sun came up.

We were well past Chillicothe when the girl stretched and yawned. I gave her one last long look, then straightened the rear-view and adjusted it until I could see the road behind me. In that stark morning light I decided with finality that she was at least twenty-two. Like so many of her liberated generation, she wore no bra; her breasts were fully developed and, while you can’t really go by that, she presented an early-morning image of mature womanhood. So she was no kid, and I could forget about that. But I didn’t want to forget it, not completely; it was a nice excuse, a nice option to have if I wanted to dump her along the way for any reason. I still felt uneasy about her sudden appearance, and nothing she had said had made me more comfortable with her. She stretched and opened her eyes.

“God—what time is it?” Her voice cracked.

I looked at my watch. “Almost seven. Good nap?”

“Yeah, great.” She rubbed her eyes. “Where’re we at?”

“Somewhere past some town that begins with a C. I can’t pronounce it.”

“Chillicothe. I thought you’d be farther along than that.”

“Yeah, we passed it quite a while back. I haven’t been pushing it.”

“You still taking me to Cincinnati?”

“I said I would. Cincinnati’s a big town; you ought to be able to find work and get lost there—if that’s what you want. But that’s the end of it for me, okay? You can get yourself over the state line.”

“God, I really don’t believe this,” she said a little sarcastically. “Can you really look at me and think I’m under eighteen?”

“Look, do you want to go to Cincinnati or not? I said I’d take you there.”

“Fine, fine.” She held up her hands, suggesting that we drop it “In fact, Cincinnati’s just great.”

“Good. Right now, how about breakfast?”

I found a truck stop soon, and we went inside and took a booth in a corner. Amy excused herself and went to the ladies’ room, which was located down a dark corridor on the other side of the room. The waitress came and I ordered coffee for both of us. Amy returned in less than a minute—hardly long enough to have made the trip worthwhile—and slipped into her side of the booth.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Just wanted to splash some water in my face.”

“Have anything you want; I’m buying.”

“I’ve got some money.”

“Save it; you’ll probably need it before you get to California, or wherever it is you’re going.”

She looked at me with strange eyes. The waitress came for our orders, and Amy had a full stack of pancakes and an order of bacon and eggs. Either was enough for me; I took the hotcakes. While we were eating she surveyed me with her eyes, much as I had watched her on the road between Athens and Chillicothe. I did not know if she was being intentionally obvious, but I pretended not to notice. Breakfast finished, she settled back with her coffee. “Any idea how much farther you’re going?”

I shook my head no.

“I was just wondering. With my money as low as it is, well, the closer I can get to California the better off I’ll be.”

I shrugged. “Nothing personal. In fact, I’ve enjoyed having you along. It’s just that right now I don’t need any grief, and I might be letting myself in for a lot of it.”

“You aren’t. I can promise you that.”

“Besides,” I said, “what’s the big deal? Rides are easy to get, especially for a girl.”

“That’s just it. Girls never know what kind of creep might stop for them.”

“How do you know I’m not
that
kind of creep?”

She smiled, and there was just the hint of a flirt behind her eyes. “I just know it.” She shrugged. “So look at it this way—you might be keeping me out of the hands of some mad rapist, right?”

I thought about it. “No, I can’t do it,” I said finally.

Again she lapsed into a sullen silence. I thought the matter was closed, but just as I was finishing my coffee she took out a small billfold and produced a plastic-covered driver’s license. She pushed it across the table toward me.

“I thought you didn’t have one.”

“There it is. It’s a horrible picture of me, and that’s why I don’t show it around.”

In fact, it was a very good picture. The name on the license was Melinda Lewis, and the date of birth was January 6, 1950. The license had been issued just last month in Denver, Colorado.

“Melinda?”

“That’s my real name. Please call me Amy.”

“And you live in—Denver?”

“That’s my home; my husband—he’s from here.” She reached across the table and plucked the license from my fingers. “At least you know now that I’m not lying about my age, right?”

“Okay, Amy; let’s play it by ear. How does that sound?”

She smiled. “Fine.”

Again she excused herself and bowed out to the ladies’ room. I got up to pay the check. At the register I could just see into the restroom corridor. At the end, almost engulfed in darkness, was a telephone booth, and my friend Amy was talking on the phone.

I
T WAS A LONG
day. At ten o’clock I got very sleepy and Amy offered to drive. I was reluctant, resistant to relinquish control and make that final concession to her right to be here. But when my head bobbed a second time I gave up the fight. We exchanged places, I told her to stay with Route 50, then I settled back in the seat and closed my eyes. She had to move the seat up, cramping my legs against the glove compartment and making sleep difficult. Periodically I opened my eyes, studying her driving restlessly; she was a good driver, careful and slow. When we had gone sixty miles that way she said, “Look, why don’t you relax? I’m not gonna wreck your damn car.”

Her words came almost like a commandment; I did close my eyes, and when I opened them we were halfway through Indiana. It was after noon. We stopped at a hamburger stand near a town called Bedford and pushed into Illinois at midafternoon. Not much passed between us, and at three o’clock I took the wheel while she slept. That was how the day went, with very little conversation and almost no thought on my part. A few times I wondered about Amy and her phone call, but that only gave me a headache.

She awoke at four-thirty, bubbling with conversation. She talked about herself and asked questions about me. She revealed her childhood ambition to be an actress and philosophized about the funny things people do with their lives. For a long time she seemed preoccupied with losing control of her own destiny, dwelling on “most people” and how they lose control of their lives and can never get it back. Abruptly she shifted to my life, asking questions about my home and Judy; I answered them briefly but, I think, politely. By six she was getting hungry again; we pulled into a restaurant in East St. Louis.

“This time I’m buying,” she said.

“Forget it.”

“Look, I want to buy your dinner, okay?”

She did, too. She grabbed the check with an expertise that surprised me and paid it before I could stop her. Dusk had fallen when we got on the road again. For the first time since I’d left home I looked at a road map. Interstate 70 dropped into St. Louis from the north and ran due west to Denver. I stopped for gas and again consulted the map; the big interstate went almost in a straight line to Denver, and was partly completed through the Rockies. Route 50, on the other hand, dipped to the south at Kansas City, ran across southern Kansas and into southern Colorado. The highways parted for about a hundred miles before joining again at a town in western Colorado called Grand Junction. I did not want to get too far away from Route 50, but I knew there could be nothing of interest between St. Louis and Kansas City, and the interstate might save me a couple of hours’ driving time across Missouri. I asked the attendant for directions to I-70, signed for the gas, and in a few minutes we were turning onto the interstate ramp.

“I think I’ll sleep awhile,” Amy said, buckling her seatbelt. “These big highways always make me nervous.”

She closed her eyes; I accelerated and blended with traffic. We crossed the Mississippi River and passed around the great arch. Soon the city fell behind us and the rolling country spread out ahead. It was dark now, and I wasn’t sure how much farther I wanted to drive tonight or what I would look for in the way of accommodations. I didn’t feel at all tired; surprising, considering how little sleep I had had in the past thirty-six hours. I didn’t worry about it, just pushed on in a half-blind stab at getting through it. Interstate highways are concentrated monotony, and they weave a hypnotic curtain around my brain. An interstate in California is the same as an interstate in Ohio; both are the same as an interstate in Missouri. Interstate 70 is, if anything, worse than average. The road stretches into infinity; the miles roll on and nothing ever changes. I pushed the car along at sixty-five and tried to keep my mind active. But soon I became aware of that dull sensation, that growing aggravation, that compelling urge to get off the interstate and find Route 50 again. I cannot explain how it began; one minute it was not there and the next minute it was. Dull, gnawing, not unlike my experience in West Virginia, only far less intense. It grew in intensity as I pushed on, and I fought against it with the logic that the interstate was my fastest link across a state that couldn’t possibly matter to me. Again, logic lost out. When I grew tired of the struggle I turned off the highway and stopped to consult my map.

I was in a little town called Kingdom City, just off Interstate 70 and Route 54. I saw at once that Route 54 slashed southwest, joining 50 at Jefferson City. So I drove perhaps fifty miles out of my way, got on 50 again, and pushed westward toward Kansas City at a slower, easier pace. The road seemed to turn continuously after the smooth straightness of I-70, and I had to pass through a dozen small towns along the way. I found that irritating—a fine crash course in how to make a four-hour trip take six hours and more—but it was the lesser of the two evils. I was on Route 50 and that was what mattered.