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Authors: John Dunning
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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.
5
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;
“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.
5
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;
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