driver who is already pulling back onto the road. “Thank you, thank you very much.”
“Was that your station wagon a quarter mile back?”
“It was. I ran out of gas.”
Silence.
“I’m Peggy.”
“I’m Evi-Evelyn.”
“Nice to meet you, Evelyn.” The woman smiles then and she is almost pretty, her pale blue eyes shiny under thick lashes. “Where you headed?”
“I’m not sure.”
The woman’s tone is matter-of-fact when she says, “So, you running away from something or you running to something?”
“I’m… I don’t know.” The truth: she doesn’t know.
“Well, least ways, you’re honest.” The woman named Peggy slides her a glance. “No suitcase? Not even a change of shoes?”
Evie looks away. She’s taken nothing. She didn’t know she was leaving until a few seconds ago, still doesn’t know for sure. Nothing is for sure anymore except her need this afternoon to get away from Corville, from mundane, if only for an afternoon.
But then the woman says her name: “Evelyn.” Clean, simple, pure, and there it is, the answer, sitting wide and luminous in front of her.
She’s not going back. She’s Evelyn and Evelyn doesn’t belong in Corville bleaching out sinks and frying pork chops for a husband and two children. Evelyn belongs somewhere else. A tiny, horrible smile creeps over her face. Somewhere else. Mile after mile pulls her closer to her destination that she knows in her bones before it settles in her brain.
***
By the time they reach the Pennsylvania border, Evie knows quite a bit about Peggy Smolsterski. She married briefly at twenty but it didn’t last and she sold vacuum cleaners door to door for the next two years just to eke out a living. Then one day, a customer’s mother told her about a way her daughter found to see the country and get paid while doing it. That’s how Peggy got introduced to Carolina Rigs and three months later, she’s driving cross-country, visiting states like Texas, Oregon, and Maine. Five years later, she buys her own rig, and here she is, age thirty-seven, owner and operator of a brand new Kenilworth.
Evie doesn’t say much and Peggy doesn’t push her, just talks and every now and then gives Evie a chance to jump in, which she doesn’t. Peggy’s soft voice fills the cab, blocks out conscious thought, snuffs the germs of doubt and guilt before they can take hold. It’s good not to think, not yet anyway. All Evie wants right now is to breathe freedom into her lungs, feel the weightlessness of her own soul settling around her.
They stop at a blue diner along Interstate 90, fifty miles from Elkhart, Indiana. There are pickup trucks, one or two motorcycles, and two other rigs lined up in the back, a black shiny Kenilworth and a silver one with red pinstriping. “This place serves up the best fried chicken steak you ever tasted,” Peggy says, holding the door open for Evie.
The inside is dim and layered with cigarette smoke. “Johnny Angel” blares from the jukebox in the corner. Ten or so men fill the blue bar stools and booths. Aside from a gum-chewing, bleached-blonde waitress in a too-tight grayish uniform and white dangle-ball earrings, Peggy and Evie are the only women. Men turn, two and three at a time, their gazes bold, hungry, pinning Evie. She stands still, a rabbit caught in a trap. One of the men at the counter starts to rise.
“She’s with me.” Peggy’s usually soft voice is hard. She puts a hand on Evie’s shoulder and guides her to an empty booth while the man mutters something under his breath and falls back onto his stool. The others turn away, shaking their heads.
“Assholes,” Peggy mutters, sliding into her booth. “They think every woman wants a piece of them.” When Evie doesn’t respond, Peggy eyes her. “You know what that was about, don’t you?”
Evie shrugs. “They were trying to get our attention.”
Peggy laughs. “Yeah, they wanted our attention.” Her mouth flattens, her blue eyes turn
“Was that your station wagon a quarter mile back?”
“It was. I ran out of gas.”
Silence.
“I’m Peggy.”
“I’m Evi-Evelyn.”
“Nice to meet you, Evelyn.” The woman smiles then and she is almost pretty, her pale blue eyes shiny under thick lashes. “Where you headed?”
“I’m not sure.”
The woman’s tone is matter-of-fact when she says, “So, you running away from something or you running to something?”
“I’m… I don’t know.” The truth: she doesn’t know.
“Well, least ways, you’re honest.” The woman named Peggy slides her a glance. “No suitcase? Not even a change of shoes?”
Evie looks away. She’s taken nothing. She didn’t know she was leaving until a few seconds ago, still doesn’t know for sure. Nothing is for sure anymore except her need this afternoon to get away from Corville, from mundane, if only for an afternoon.
But then the woman says her name: “Evelyn.” Clean, simple, pure, and there it is, the answer, sitting wide and luminous in front of her.
She’s not going back. She’s Evelyn and Evelyn doesn’t belong in Corville bleaching out sinks and frying pork chops for a husband and two children. Evelyn belongs somewhere else. A tiny, horrible smile creeps over her face. Somewhere else. Mile after mile pulls her closer to her destination that she knows in her bones before it settles in her brain.
***
By the time they reach the Pennsylvania border, Evie knows quite a bit about Peggy Smolsterski. She married briefly at twenty but it didn’t last and she sold vacuum cleaners door to door for the next two years just to eke out a living. Then one day, a customer’s mother told her about a way her daughter found to see the country and get paid while doing it. That’s how Peggy got introduced to Carolina Rigs and three months later, she’s driving cross-country, visiting states like Texas, Oregon, and Maine. Five years later, she buys her own rig, and here she is, age thirty-seven, owner and operator of a brand new Kenilworth.
Evie doesn’t say much and Peggy doesn’t push her, just talks and every now and then gives Evie a chance to jump in, which she doesn’t. Peggy’s soft voice fills the cab, blocks out conscious thought, snuffs the germs of doubt and guilt before they can take hold. It’s good not to think, not yet anyway. All Evie wants right now is to breathe freedom into her lungs, feel the weightlessness of her own soul settling around her.
They stop at a blue diner along Interstate 90, fifty miles from Elkhart, Indiana. There are pickup trucks, one or two motorcycles, and two other rigs lined up in the back, a black shiny Kenilworth and a silver one with red pinstriping. “This place serves up the best fried chicken steak you ever tasted,” Peggy says, holding the door open for Evie.
The inside is dim and layered with cigarette smoke. “Johnny Angel” blares from the jukebox in the corner. Ten or so men fill the blue bar stools and booths. Aside from a gum-chewing, bleached-blonde waitress in a too-tight grayish uniform and white dangle-ball earrings, Peggy and Evie are the only women. Men turn, two and three at a time, their gazes bold, hungry, pinning Evie. She stands still, a rabbit caught in a trap. One of the men at the counter starts to rise.
“She’s with me.” Peggy’s usually soft voice is hard. She puts a hand on Evie’s shoulder and guides her to an empty booth while the man mutters something under his breath and falls back onto his stool. The others turn away, shaking their heads.
“Assholes,” Peggy mutters, sliding into her booth. “They think every woman wants a piece of them.” When Evie doesn’t respond, Peggy eyes her. “You know what that was about, don’t you?”
Evie shrugs. “They were trying to get our attention.”
Peggy laughs. “Yeah, they wanted our attention.” Her mouth flattens, her blue eyes turn
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