The van careens down the highway. She stares into the review mirror—dead winter landscape stretching out behind. The bony bent tree branches reaching across flat sky, looking like blackened arteries and vessels and veins coursing up the gray empty air. Lead darkened snow speckled across the brown grass. The smokestacks and electrical cages of factories clutter the sides of the highway, ominous structures lit in intricate webs of lights. Their eyes ease open wider, adjusting as the sky lightens. The land is flat and wide and stretches on forever.

A few other cars spatter the three lanes. The white lines of the highway trail the edges of the tires like strings dragging them. In the mirror it’s hard to tell which direction they are heading, driving so long it feels like they are still. Driving is the only time when the days don’t separate—they can stretch on for weeks or pass like minutes, the same songs coming around on the tape deck as the sun eases up and it gets light out again.

She flips open the visor mirror and takes stock of her face, eyes heavy from the sleepless night. She takes out her lipstick and Frankie fiddles with the radio. Frankie drives, because she doesn’t know how. She gave them the made-up names the night before: Frankie and Grenadine. The names sealed it. They’re heading into the unknown—shooting out southbound a sure arrow, turning wheels birthing them new again.

Sometimes they get into trouble. The sign says “Free Deluxe Breakfast” and they know the part left out is “with a night’s stay,” but Frankie pulls into the motel parking lot anyway. The front desk is empty, so they help themselves to instant oatmeal and coffee, shoving oranges and packets of jelly into their jackets. Heading back to the car, the desk clerk comes up behind them. “Hey you!” he calls out. Grenadine keeps on walking, eyes straight ahead, head high, but she can sense Frankie stopping, turning.

“Huh?” Frankie says.

“What room are you in?” The clerk demands. Grenadine watches from a few feet away, clenching her fists. She sizes him up—the plastic nametag and ugly tie, hands on hips, shaking his head at Frankie like he’s punishing a dog.

“Oh ahhh,” Frankie stammers, pockets bulging with packets of oatmeal and jam, an orange clutched in her hand.

“What room are you in?” he says again, his voice rising.

Grenadine can feel the hot coal of anger inside her chest. She imagines that he’s looking at Frankie’s shaved head and flannel shirt and he’s judging her. “The second floor, near the elevator,” Grenadine snaps and then rolls her eyes—something that always seems to outrage old men.

“The number?” He demands

“211—we have to go. Now!” She shouts back.

“I don’t think so.” He is glaring at Frankie, whose gaze is focused on the pavement. “Come inside, I want to check the book.” Frankie gives Grenadine a defeated look.

“All right, listen,” Frankie timidly begins to explain. “We didn’t really stay here, we’re sorry we just—”

“You bitches!” The clerk explodes; he grabs Frankie by the collar. “Come with me, I’m calling the cops on you!” Grenadine jumps between them.

“Get your hands off her!” she yells.

“Give me ten dollars! Ten dollars for the food!” Grenadine pushes Frankie toward the van.

“We don’t have ten fucking dollars!” she screeches as she runs to the passenger side. “Why the hell do you think we’re stealing?”

“Don’t you get in that car!” Frankie’s door is still open. The man runs up and tugs at her arm.

Grenadine picks up a handful of cassette tapes and leans over Frankie. “Here!” she shouts, throwing them in his face. “Take these!” Frankie pushes the man away and slams her door.

As they peel out of the lot, Grenadine kneels up on her seat to watch him out the rear window. He is stooping down to collect the tapes. “Damn, I think he got John Denver,” she mutters.

Driving seems to erase everything but the present. Always in between, on the move, not dead or alive, asleep or awake, happy or sad—just there—same as the landscape. As they get further south, fresh vines snake up around the trees and the grass has turned a hot spring green. It all rushes past in a blur of vibrant color. Snapshots caught in the window frame. The only worry now is finding money for gas.

 

©2018 Margaret Milan Wright