Last Known Address. Elizabeth Wrenn

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      ‘I forgot the third thing!’ said Shelly.

      There was just the briefest pause, then all three screamed with laughter again.

      ‘I don’t remember it either!’ C.C. squealed.

      ‘Oh my God,’ Meg said flatly, catching her breath, looking side to side, blinking. ‘I can’t remember it either! This is so pathetic.’ She burst out laughing along with the other two and inadvertently snorted, making them all dissolve again.

      ‘Stop! Stop! Or you’ll make me pee!’ C.C. gasped from the back seat.

      They slowly regained control. C.C.’s worry, a frequent one of late, quickly brought some sobriety into the car.

      ‘Oh my,’ said Meg, inhaling deeply. She pulled a tissue from the center console and dabbed at her eyes, sighing. ‘Golly. Just look at us here, all broken down and stranded, not doing a darned thing about it.’

      ‘Well, why the hell are we just sitting here, girls?’ said Shelly, digging through her purse. She pulled out a pack of tissues, which she handed back to C.C., then her bright red reading glasses, then her gem-studded cellphone. ‘You’re a member of Triple A, right, Meg?’ she asked.

      Meg shook her head, pointed to a small sticker on the corner of the windshield. ‘No, but we’ve got–’ she sucked in a breath–‘I’ve got towing coverage. With our insurance.’ She held out her hand. ‘May I use your phone?’ Shelly handed it to her.

      ‘Ceece?’ Shelly said, twisting in her seat. ‘You’d better get an urgent delivery prayer up that we can get a signal out here.’

      Meg turned and watched as C.C. closed her eyes, crossed herself quickly, then put her forehead against her clasped hands. Meg turned back around. She looked at the sticker, blinked, pressed her head back into the headrest, then looked at Shelly again. ‘I can’t read the numbers. Hand the specs over too, please.’ She punched in the number, and when it rang, Meg gave the other two a thumbs-up.

      ‘Yay, Jesus!’ shouted Shelly, the recalcitrant but loyal Jew, pumping her fist. Meg could hear C.C. clapping, saying, ‘Thank you, Jesus.’ Meg waved her hand for them to quiet.

      ‘Hello? Hello? Can you hear me? Yes? Great. Hi. This is Meg Bartholomew. We, uh, need a little help, I guess.’

      Shelly leaned over, nearly in Meg’s lap, and yelled toward the phone, ‘We need a lot of help!’ Meg swatted her off, grinning.

      Meg listened, then said, ‘Well, actually, I did happen to notice the last mile marker we passed. Number thirty-two.’ Whether C.C. hadn’t heard, or didn’t remember the significance of the number, or simply decided to keep quiet, Meg didn’t know. But she was grateful.

      When she had relayed the rest of the information, Meg closed the phone and handed it back to Shelly. ‘Well, I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait for someone to rescue us.’

      The rain, which had been slowly letting up, had now finally stopped altogether, as if it too were worn out. Meg looked up, hopeful for a rainbow that she could point out to C.C. But there was no rainbow, no fingers of sunlight breaking through, not even a parting in the clouds.

      No one spoke. Meg looked out at the soggy patchwork of farmland, most of it fallow still, even late March being too early and–untrustworthy–for planting. She stared at the barbed-wire fence, watched the drops clinging to the bottom of the wires, like tiny, upside-down birds, until they grew fat and heavy, and gravity made them plunge to the ground. She rested her head on the cool glass and wondered where Grant was. She closed her eyes, picturing him in his ubiquitous Yankees cap, driving his orange BMW. But where? She willed him to write to her, tried even to make herself picture a letter already waiting for her in Tennessee. He had the address; she’d dictated it to him that day he was sitting at the kitchen table making some sort of list and—She had a sudden pang. What had he been writing that day? He’d been sitting at the kitchen table, writing a list on a legal pad, and listening to that awful sports radio where the men seemed to yell all the time. She’d hesitated briefly, then she’d asked to speak to him. ‘What’s up?’ he said, neither looking up nor turning down the radio. The conversation that had followed, like all their conversations, was stilted, awkward. But somehow Meg had worked in how much she’d loved his letters to her in college, and that maybe they could write to each other while she was away. She thought, but didn’t say, that if they could write to each other, maybe they could find a way to talk to each other. ‘I really don’t need the address,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll call you if I need you.’ ‘Well, the phone may not work when we get there. C.C. thinks it’s been turned off. Just write it down. Please?’ Meg remembered the tired anger of having to cajole. ‘It can’t hurt to have it. If only for emergencies.’ Only then had he torn a small corner off the bottom of the page, hastily scrawled the address on it as she dictated. But she could tell he was, from habit, more attuned to what was being said on the radio than by her.

      Sitting in the car now, Meg realized she should have looked at whatever it was he was writing. Probably his own list of things to take. He had known. Even then. Maybe he’d been planning to leave her for months. Years.

      She gazed out at the expanse of emptiness again. She looked at the barbed-wire fence across the road, looking sharp and certain of its responsibilities. On one post was a small, metal ‘No Trespassing’ sign, a bullet hole just above the circle of the o. She wondered if the shooter had been aiming for the o, or had just taken a pot shot.

      Sitting there, just past mile marker 32, Meg stared at the sign through the wet glass, and wondered if, in the end, aiming made any difference.

       CHAPTER THREE C.C.

      The small restaurant was dimly lit, but warm and cozy. Just what they all needed, C.C. decided. But she was worried when Meg and Shelly headed toward one of the three small booths along the wall. She didn’t think she’d fit. But, happily, the benches slid out. C.C. decided two things on the spot; one, that, like Meg was always telling her, she was not as fat as she thought she was; and two, that she liked this little place.

      Two hours after the tow truck had rescued them, they were sitting in Purdy’s Restaurant and Bar in the tiny burg of Tupper, Illinois. Showers in their motel room (number three, like the three of them–a good omen!) had taken the worst of the chill out of them. Now, as dusk fell outside, they were warming their insides with what Shelly called Sleeping Irish–Irish coffees made with decaf. C.C. was so tired that she hadn’t realized till two sips into her very strong drink that they were staying at Purdy’s Motel, and just down the road was Purdy’s Grocery. Purdy himself had checked them in to their room. There were only four rooms; one of these Purdy had indicated he lived in (‘should you need anything, night or day’). Then he had insisted on carrying all their luggage from Mick’s Garage and Auto Sales, across and down the dirt Main Street to their room. By the time all of their luggage, mostly C.C.’s, had been delivered, the portly Purdy was red-faced and puffing, but strangely beaming. C.C. had tried to offer him a tip, but he had refused, just stood there, looking every which way but at her. Finally, he’d said that maybe they’d like to freshen up and then come over to his restaurant for dinner. Slightly embarrassed at the looks the other two gave her, C.C. had replied yes, they would probably do that. She refrained from pointing out that there didn’t seem to be anywhere else in Tupper that they could get dinner.

      Purdy now appeared at their booth, bearing a small СКАЧАТЬ