Last Known Address. Elizabeth Wrenn

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       CHAPTER TWO Meg

      ‘I spy with my little eye, something blue.’

      ‘Blue?’ said Shelly. ‘It can’t be inside the car, Ceece!’

      ‘It’s not! Look! On the bottom of that silo.’

      ‘Well, don’t show me, for God’s sakes! Now you have to pick something else!’

      Meg smiled at them, Shelly riding shotgun, C.C. in the back, where she would be the entire trip because she didn’t drive a stick. Meg wasn’t playing the I Spy game; she was too worried about her car. The windshield wipers had done it again, a sort of hiccup. As she watched, they stalled mid-swipe and finally slid down and lay there, as if exhausted. Meg stared at them; she could relate.

      At least it had nearly stopped raining. She glanced over at Shelly, then caught C.C. staring at her in the rear-view mirror. Both of them had that flicker of alarm in their eyes, their lively chatting abruptly stopped. It was clear to all of them now, the car was unwell. But it kept on going. Good ole Rosie, Meg thought. But she wondered again if the full load–all their suitcases, the cooler and the three of them–wasn’t too much for her ancient Honda.

      ‘I think your old car is having mid-life issues too, Meg.’ Shelly was fanning herself with the map again. She laughed, and C.C. chortled in the back.

      Meg turned the radio off, then the headlights. She flipped the wiper switch off, then on, and the blades reluctantly picked up. But then the car surged and sputtered, and the wipers flopped spasmodically again.

      As long as the car is moving, I’ll be damned if I’m going to pull over here, in Middle-of-Nowhere, Illinois. Meg stared up at the gray sky, not to God, because she’d long ago dismissed that notion, but rather in the same way Eeyore would look at his personal rain cloud, not questioning, but with a somber acceptance. Hello there, Rain cloud. I knew you’d stay with me.

      ‘Those wipers look about as useful as goose doo on a pump handle,’ said C.C., matter-of-factly.

      Meg smiled, finally. She was always grateful for C.C.’s take on things, and now it seemed their every mile southward was bringing out a little more of her latent accent and homespun sayings.

      Meg looked at the trip odometer: 212. And they had nearly four hundred miles to go!

      She tried the wipers again. ‘C’mon, you worthless things!’ They sprang to life, as if to mock her.

      ‘Yay!’ said C.C., and she and Shelly resumed their conversation.

      Meg straightened in her seat again, able to see now through the cleared arcs. They rolled past another mile marker and Meg flinched when she saw it: 32. Her upcoming wedding anniversary. She said nothing, fearing that C.C. would interpret it as a bad omen.

      Was it her imagination or were the wipers slowing again? Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. They were. They stuttered, then refused to rise. Again. She glared at the blades, black and crisp-looking–she’d bought new ones just for this trip-but utterly useless on their metal arms. Involuntarily, she glanced down at her new pants, loden-green corduroys, also purchased just for this trip; she’d been shocked to find that she had to buy a size six. She’d been a fit ten her whole married life, except for when she was pregnant. A deep and audible sigh of empathy with the wipers slipped out as she decided she really couldn’t see. She carefully steered the car toward the side of the road.

      Suddenly the wipers picked up again and the engine hummed to life. ‘Make up your friggin’ mind!’ Meg growled. She steered the car back onto the paved but unlined country road.

      ‘What the hell’s wrong with the wipers?’ asked Shelly.

      ‘Yeah, what’s wrong?’ C.C. asked.

      Meg СКАЧАТЬ