Hick - Andrea Portes [30]
“Glenda, do you think that—”
“No talking till we get to Wyoming.”
She shoots me a look like she means it and catches the doubt written all over my forehead in little lines. She softens up a bit and pats the front of my seat.
“You did good, kid. All except the stroke part.”
“Do you think he’s gonna make it?”
“Sure he is.”
“I mean, it wasn’t my fault. He just had like a temporary stroke or something and went into a coma and he’ll be fine in an hour maybe, right, don’t you think—”
“Look, there’s no use dwelling on it. Okay? He’ll be fine. Just fine.”
Silence.
“You heard the man. Campbell’s got the best ER in the state. Hell, I even heard of Campbell. it’s a famous establishment. Very famous.”
Yup. He’s been knocking on her door, too.
“But, what about—”
“Drop it.”
“I mean, what if—”
“I said drop it.”
I get the picture and slump down into my seat.
“Look, make me a cigarette, kid, and quit dwelling”
She nods towards the row of cigarettes on the dash. I lean up and reach across the seat. I pick one out, light it and slip it between her fingers. She nods her acceptance, takes it and keeps looking forward, furrowing her brow, somewhere between determination and fear.
I fumble with the radio.
“No music.”
She checks the rearview and checks again, her hands glued to the wheel. Her dread is starting to seep over into the back seat. I look back at the blacktop. The sun is starting to go down and the sky is turning orange behind us, as if we set that world on fire and can barely make it down the road before getting burned ourselves. We drive through the stillness like there’s a spell cast on everything except us, some frozen thing, waiting and watching from the fields. I stare silent into the turning light, trying to slam the door on that old man’s fingers, creeping up, slamming and creeping up again.
I don’t feel struck or sad or sinful. I just feel numb, thinking about that purple rag-doll stare above me, crushing my shoulder blades down into the cold tile floor. It doesn’t seem real. It seems like some made-up schoolyard fantasy you’d try to dazzle your friends with before the bell. But when I look at Glenda’s knuckles clenching the steering wheel, I know it’s real. I know it’s real and I know I can’t go back. And if that old man don’t make it, well, there’s a piece of me that’ll be left in that little store, too. There’ll be this piece of me that no matter what I do, even if I return, even if I inspect every inch of every corner of that tile floor on my hands and knees for days, I will never, ever, get back.
I stare out the window as the stars come on one by one. I can’t sleep. I beg Glenda to play music but she won’t budge. She is hunched over the steering wheel like a vulture, peering into the big black night.
“What about if—”
“Okay, look, kid, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret and listen up cause this one’ll get you through. You listening?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Okay, there’s a trick you can do, okay? There’s a trick you do when you start doing what you’re doing now, which is dwelling. You’re dwelling. You’re stuck. Feel it? You’re stuck. You’re playing that same song over and over again about how he’s gonna die and why me why me and you’ve got that song playing on repeat, am I right or am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, now, I want you to put a quarter in the jukebox and change the record. Got it? You just change that record you got playing to a new song, okay? Find a different song. Something bright. Make it a good one and play that. Just change the record.”
She looks my way and I try to pretend to get it. I try to, but honest, I ain’t sure.
“That’s lesson three.”
“Can we turn on the radio?”
“Once we get to Wyoming.”
Great.
It is the answer to everything. Can we play music? Once we get to Wyoming. Can we count our money? Once we get to Wyoming. Can I talk yet? Once we get to Wyoming.
It is our salvation, the light at the end of the tunnel, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Wyoming.
Once we get to Wyoming, then we’ll be happy.
FOURTEEN
Somewhere in the