Judy says.
‘Alison Krauss,’ Freya replies. Judy nods appreciatively with a little pursing of her mouth - it’s a gesture which annoys Guy, in fact, has always annoyed him. It’s an affectation and she doesn’t have to do that here, but still she does.
Guy pushes down the pedal, imperceptibly, and begins a slow acceleration to seventy-five, imagining a valve opening somewhere in front of them, a release of fuel deep down in the dark metal innards of this strange car, unknown to his passengers. It makes him complicit with the machine. It makes him feel good. He eases back on the pedal and looks out across the swamp. The glow of his dashboard lights reflects on his window, but beyond that, there’s only darkness. What lives out there, he thinks, what horrid bodies slip by each other in that ink? Immediately he pictures the alligators, sliding past one another in the black night, their bodies even blacker, log-like, segmented, unblinking. He hates the way their legs jut out, their four-fingered feet so un-relaxed, like the taxidermist’s already stuffed them.
‘Don’t drive so fast,’ Judy says.
‘I wasn’t,’ he says, guiltily.
She looks at him and grins. ‘We don’t want to go off the road here,’ she says.
He smiles. ‘I was just thinking that myself,’ he says. ‘I’m not keen on meeting the gators.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ she says, ‘all this nothingness. It’s like someone’s just rubbed the world away.’
She’s speaking quietly - it’s just the two of them, because Freya’s still listening to the stereo. It’s like they used to be before she was born. Alone in a car travelling through the night, sharing a private moment. Both of them are enjoying this now.
‘Are you tired?’ she asks.
‘I think I could drive all night if we had to. And we might have to,’ he adds, lightly.
‘I love it, Guy, I just love it,’ she says, girlishly. She still has that lovely inflection in her voice, that illusive crystal quality which makes you want to hear more. When she sings with that in her voice, she’s amazing.
‘I was just thinking,’ she says, ‘when we’re in Nashville, you should spend some quality time with Freya. Get to know her.’
‘I do know her.’
‘You know what I mean. I’ll be busy and I don’t want you two getting frustrated.’
‘We won’t.’
‘Get her kitted out like a pageant queen.’
‘OK.’
‘And you need to buy yourself a Stetson.’
He feels calm in this pocket of his family - the three of them, cocooned, surrounded by miles of water and dark swampy death. But he’s rattled by her mention of Nashville - not that he can put his finger on why that should be. He senses the malign unknowing shape of it like an interruption, a thing which is gathering form, an awareness that life has its surprises plotted out already. And we rush towards them, regardless.
‘Want to stop?’ he says. He’s seen a gas station lit up like an island in this dark sea, and is already slowing the car down.
He pulls off the road into the station and when he cuts the engine there’s an immediate silence followed by a flood of insect noise, a wide humming that fills the air above them. It’s a hot night and the cement of the forecourt has a baked dry smell, the smell of foreign airports, and the lights strung under the canopy have a sick blue glow to them.
Freya gets out, stretching, pulling the earphones from her ears.
‘You tired, Dad?’ she says.
‘Not really,’ he replies. She looks out towards the endless swamp.
‘God, what a place,’ she says, then heads towards the shop. She’s already as tall as her mother, and has a thickness to her legs Judy’s never had, a gift from him, his size, coming out in her. Maybe she’ll be one of those women who are just too big for men to deal with, too strong. But maybe not. There’s a clumsiness to her which is endearing, after all, and she’s always had a friendly expression, it will get her
‘Alison Krauss,’ Freya replies. Judy nods appreciatively with a little pursing of her mouth - it’s a gesture which annoys Guy, in fact, has always annoyed him. It’s an affectation and she doesn’t have to do that here, but still she does.
Guy pushes down the pedal, imperceptibly, and begins a slow acceleration to seventy-five, imagining a valve opening somewhere in front of them, a release of fuel deep down in the dark metal innards of this strange car, unknown to his passengers. It makes him complicit with the machine. It makes him feel good. He eases back on the pedal and looks out across the swamp. The glow of his dashboard lights reflects on his window, but beyond that, there’s only darkness. What lives out there, he thinks, what horrid bodies slip by each other in that ink? Immediately he pictures the alligators, sliding past one another in the black night, their bodies even blacker, log-like, segmented, unblinking. He hates the way their legs jut out, their four-fingered feet so un-relaxed, like the taxidermist’s already stuffed them.
‘Don’t drive so fast,’ Judy says.
‘I wasn’t,’ he says, guiltily.
She looks at him and grins. ‘We don’t want to go off the road here,’ she says.
He smiles. ‘I was just thinking that myself,’ he says. ‘I’m not keen on meeting the gators.’
‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ she says, ‘all this nothingness. It’s like someone’s just rubbed the world away.’
She’s speaking quietly - it’s just the two of them, because Freya’s still listening to the stereo. It’s like they used to be before she was born. Alone in a car travelling through the night, sharing a private moment. Both of them are enjoying this now.
‘Are you tired?’ she asks.
‘I think I could drive all night if we had to. And we might have to,’ he adds, lightly.
‘I love it, Guy, I just love it,’ she says, girlishly. She still has that lovely inflection in her voice, that illusive crystal quality which makes you want to hear more. When she sings with that in her voice, she’s amazing.
‘I was just thinking,’ she says, ‘when we’re in Nashville, you should spend some quality time with Freya. Get to know her.’
‘I do know her.’
‘You know what I mean. I’ll be busy and I don’t want you two getting frustrated.’
‘We won’t.’
‘Get her kitted out like a pageant queen.’
‘OK.’
‘And you need to buy yourself a Stetson.’
He feels calm in this pocket of his family - the three of them, cocooned, surrounded by miles of water and dark swampy death. But he’s rattled by her mention of Nashville - not that he can put his finger on why that should be. He senses the malign unknowing shape of it like an interruption, a thing which is gathering form, an awareness that life has its surprises plotted out already. And we rush towards them, regardless.
‘Want to stop?’ he says. He’s seen a gas station lit up like an island in this dark sea, and is already slowing the car down.
He pulls off the road into the station and when he cuts the engine there’s an immediate silence followed by a flood of insect noise, a wide humming that fills the air above them. It’s a hot night and the cement of the forecourt has a baked dry smell, the smell of foreign airports, and the lights strung under the canopy have a sick blue glow to them.
Freya gets out, stretching, pulling the earphones from her ears.
‘You tired, Dad?’ she says.
‘Not really,’ he replies. She looks out towards the endless swamp.
‘God, what a place,’ she says, then heads towards the shop. She’s already as tall as her mother, and has a thickness to her legs Judy’s never had, a gift from him, his size, coming out in her. Maybe she’ll be one of those women who are just too big for men to deal with, too strong. But maybe not. There’s a clumsiness to her which is endearing, after all, and she’s always had a friendly expression, it will get her
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