Road to Paradise. Paullina Simons

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      She declined. “I’m terrible at reading maps,” she said. “But I have the address.” Betty handed me a scrap of paper and a donut. Everything was on a scrap of paper. “You best get going. You wanna get there before dark. The Kirkebys live in the country, no lights anywhere; will be hard to read the street signs.” Before I could protest, she stuffed four fifties into my hand. “Here. You look like you need the money.”

      “Do I?” What can I do never to look like that again? Is it my Levi’s shorts? Or my plain white blouse? Is it the Dr. Scholls on my feet? Or the two-dollar Great Lash mascara that was caking from last night? I didn’t carry a purse, but did my eight-cylinder, 350 horsepower stock car that cost someone a second mortgage give my financial status away? What was it about me that made me look impoverished to a pale woman with slow speech and a mute man that almost never looked up from his newspaper?

      Money in hand, sugar from the donut sticking to my fingers, I opened up the piece of paper like it was a fortune cookie: “YOU WILL BE RICH.” “YOU HAVE MANY GIFTS.” “1809 Chariot Way, De Soto, MO.”

      “MO?” I muttered. “Gina, what state is MO?”

      “Dunno. Montana?”

      “Not Montana!” That was Aunt Betty. “Where would I get a customer from Montana?”

      “Is it here? Is it Michigan?”

      “I don’t know what you mean,” said Betty, collecting the toast plates. “This isn’t Michigan. Flo always gets it wrong. It’s Indiana. We’re right on the border. Listen, don’t get yourself in a twist. You have the money. Go.” And then she added, “Need directions?”

      Puzzled I stared at her; clear-eyed and judgmental she stared back. Where had I heard that before, seen that before? Need Directions? I saw it like a billboard in front of my eyes. “Yes,” I said. “Where’s De Soto?”

      “St. Louis,” Aunt Betty exclaimed. “Just a few miles south on I-55. Why don’t you go and get ready. It’s getting late.”

      Near St. Louis. A few miles south. On I-55. Carefully, folding my map, I said, “Is that on the way to California?”

      “Of course!” replied Aunt Betty. “Don’t you know what St. Louis is called? ‘The Gateway to the West.’ What do you think the St. Louis Arch was built for?”

      I straightened up and shook my head. “Aunt Betty, I don’t think St. Louis is that close. We were planning to stay on I-80.”

      “What, two hundred isn’t enough?” she said. “Shaking me down for more money, Shel?”

      “What?” I exclaimed. “No, of course not, like I would, no, but … now that you mention it …”

      “Sloane!” That was Gina.

      “No, no, niece, she’s right.” Aunt Betty smiled ruefully. “That’s fine. I’ll give you a hundred more. Will that cover it?” She stared at me meaningfully. “And here’s some water for the road.”

      We’re leaving? But I hadn’t planned my route yet, hadn’t written things down in order—

      Within thirty minutes we were flasked, packed, dogged-up, and shown the door. Betty did not allow us to shower.

      “Goodbye!” She waved, disappearing into her broken-down trailer with the cow and the goat. “Was so good to see you, girls. Gina, I’ll tell your mother we had a nice visit. Be careful, you two!”

      “Wow,” I said as we drove out onto the main road. “Wow.”

      “Wow what?”

      “Huh. Nothing. Strange is all.” I turned around to glance at the Chihuahuas in the crate taking up most of the backseat. What odd-looking dogs.

      “What’s strange?” Gina opened the map.

      “Don’t even pretend. Put that map away,” I said. “You didn’t get the feeling she was trying to get rid of us?”

      Gina looked up. “No. She’s just efficient. Doesn’t like nonsense.”

      “Yeah, that must be it.”

      “Do you know where you’re going?” Gina put the map away.

      “Haven’t you heard? St. Louis.”

      We left that moment, not a few days later, like I planned, like Gina wanted. We were hurried out in the middle of an afternoon. I could’ve said no to the dogs, to the money, and didn’t. I could’ve said no to many things, and didn’t. Like I keep saying, sometimes, life alters by increments and sometimes by insurrection.

3

       Two Todds

      Route 12 was rural. Stretching through the strip of trees that flanked Lake Michigan, the countryside stopped being pretty, became utilitarian. But to me, where Aunt Betty lived looked like not a bad place for kids to grow up. There was nothing to do, but there were fields and forests. The kids could have adventures. In Larchmont you always had to be careful. Look both ways, don’t jaywalk. Not much adventure. Here, the kids just ran with the dogs. And the goats.

      “Is Ned your aunt’s husband?”

      “I don’t think so,” replied Gina. “I think they met up in a rest home Betty had been living in, recuperating.”

      “Recuperating from what?”

      “I don’t know. Life’s little stresses. She gets stressed out easily.” Gina chuckled. “You saw Ned.”

      “You could say I saw Ned.”

      “What?”

      “Nothing. What was he recuperating from?”

      “Well, I don’t know. He’s had some problems.”

      “You don’t say. What kind of problems?”

      Gina raised her eyebrows. “Mental problems.”

      “Oh.”

      “But I don’t really know.”

      “Why don’t you ask Agnes? She’ll tell you.”

      “How would Agnes know about Ned?”

      “Agnes often speaks of things she knows absolutely nothing about.”

      “You think?” said Gina, with a breath, then another. “But sometimes Agnes speaks of things she knows something about. No?”

      After the briefest of pauses, I said, “No. Tell me about Ned.” See, this is when we СКАЧАТЬ