by Susan Wiggs
“Thanks.”
Molly’s expression is priceless as she watches Eileen dry the kid’s tears and wipe his nose, then clean his bottom. This is a better justification for birth control than any lecture from me, although it means a sad end for the old tree skirt. Eileen puts on a clean diaper, but the romper is soaked through. The baby starts wailing again.
“I don’t have a change of clothes for him.” Eileen looks like she’s about to lose it, too.
I glance at the quilt bag, hesitating only a moment. At the bottom is a pair of Oshkosh overalls in candy pink. “This will probably work. It was Molly’s when she was about his size. See if it fits.” I answer the question in her expression. “I brought along a bag of old fabric scraps to add to the quilt I’ve been working on.”
“Then I can’t take this.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ve got plenty. I have enough.”
She threads him into the overalls. The baby cries as she straps him into his car seat, the sobs punctuated with liquid coughs. Eileen gives him a plastic bottle of Gerber apple juice, but he flings it away. Molly is actively trying not to cringe; I can tell.
“Hush,” Eileen says. “Please. Sorry about him.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Is he running a fever?”
“A little, I think. I gave him some Tylenol drops right before you stopped.” She loads in the diaper bag and her purse, then locks her car, and we all take off.
Eventually, the storm of crying subsides as the monotony of the ride lulls the baby. The stretch of road that looked so innocent on the map is narrow and curving, with a posted speed limit of forty. It’s too late to change our minds now, though. We’re committed.
We learn that Eileen and her boyfriend went to Vegas together to get work. “My mother didn’t want me to leave, but there was nothing for me in Honey moon, except maybe some crap job at a fast-food place. Vegas was our best bet, especially since I wanted to be a dancer. I was a dancer, until I got pregnant.”
“Onstage, in Vegas?” Molly turns to her in interest.
Eileen nods her head. “I was in the chorus line of a show at the Monte Carlo.”
“That’s so cool,” Molly says.
“It was. But…harder than you’d think, especially with a kid and a lousy boyfriend. My mother danced, too, but never professionally. She always wanted to work onstage and didn’t ever have the chance.”
“Then it’s great that you got the opportunity,” I tell her, trying to say something positive.
Eileen gives a brief, humorless laugh. “I doubt my mother would think so. She was scared I might succeed at something she never got to do.”
I have no idea what to say to this. I peek in the rear view mirror. Eileen is stroking the hair off Josten’s fore head. “Mama tried like hell to talk me out of going, but I went anyway,” she says. “Big mistake.”
“What, leaving home?” Molly asks.
“Leaving with him. With my boyfriend, Mick. My ex, now.”
There is no air of I-told-you-so when we stop at a modest clapboard house at the far side of a town called Honeymoon. Eileen’s mother, who doesn’t look a day over forty, gathers her into a hug that emanates relief and gratitude. She inspects the baby, now groggy and mellow from his nap, and holds him against her as if he’s a missing piece of herself. “Look at this doll baby,” she whispers, shutting her eyes and inhaling. “Just look at him.”
Through the lines of fatigue around her mouth, Eileen beams. “It’s good to be home,” she says.
“I’m glad you’re here,” the mother replies. “No idea what I did without you.” Then she turns and thanks me in a trembling voice. “Would you like to stay for supper?” she asks. “I got some sweet corn from a neigh bor. And I just made some lemonade, fresh.”
“Thanks, but we have to keep going,” I tell her. Molly surprises me by saying, “Maybe a glass of lemonade…”
The woman, whose name is Shelley, serves it in mismatched glasses and asks us about our trip.
“My mom’s dropping me off at college,” Molly says.
“Goodness, college. That’s exciting.”
The baby starts fussing himself awake and Eileen turns away to tend to him. I admire the patchwork quilt draped over the back of the sofa, and Shelley tells me it’s a family heirloom.
“I’m working on one myself,” I say. “It’s my biggest project to date.”
“I like sewing,” she says. “I made all of Eileen’s costumes for her dance routines. I don’t sew much anymore. The local fabric store folded, and the nearest superstore’s thirty miles away. They got everything you need there, but I miss the shop. All the women were friends, you know?”
I think of the shop back home. Here in the middle of nowhere, this woman had nailed it—a community for women.
She gives us a local map that shows more detail than my Triple-A triptych. She indicates a route back to the highway that will put us a good eighty miles ahead of where we were.
Molly takes over driving again. I pick up my quilting. She says, “Dad’s going to freak when you tell him we picked up a stranger.”
“She needed a lift. We had no choice.”
“I’m glad we helped her out. We’re behind on our schedule now, though.”
“We don’t need to be anywhere specific,” I note. “It was a goal, the four hundred miles.”
We drive through a few towns fringed by strip malls or trailer parks. There is an air of exhaustion that seeps into the atmosphere of these places, and we’re glad to leave them behind.
By the time we reach the highway, dusk has fallen and it’s time to find food and a place to spend the night. An eerie emptiness hovers over the open road and few cars pass by.
“It’s looking bleak,” Molly says. “How far to the next city?”
“Almost a hundred miles. You up for it?”
“Looks like we don’t have a choice.”
She plugs an adaptor into her iPod so we can listen on the stereo speakers, and we get into a discussion about the stupidest lyrics ever written—“This Is Why I’m Hot” would be my pick. But Molly points out Van Morrison’s “Ringworm” and then we dissect the lyrics of some old Yes songs.
“Anything sounds stupid if you listen too closely,” I say.
Molly switches to a track that’s in French. “Clearly, we’ve been in the car together too long.”
A few minutes later, I spot a billboard rising from an alfalfa field, with a light shining on it. “Ramblers Rest, in Possum, Illinois. Want to check it out?”
She nods and drives another mile to the next sign. There’s a red-neon light indicating Vacancy in the window of the office, which also contains a convenience store. The tires crackle over the gravel in the drive.
“What do you think?” Molly asks.
“It’s worth a look. If it’s horrible, we’ll drive away.”
It’s not horrible, just a bit strange. Ramblers Rest consists of a group of small, self-contained wayfarers’ cabins at the edge of a small trout pond. Our room is plain but clean, with walls of scrubbed pine, checkered curtains and an old-fashioned prayer posted above one of the beds.
The proprietor, a man in jeans and a plaid shirt, tells us there’s a bonfire down by the pond where guests gather around to sing songs and toast marshmallows.
“Songs?” Molly mutters. “No way.”
“We could harmonize ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
She cringes, and I send her a wicked grin. “Or ‘Kumbaya’?”
The closest restaurant, our host says, is a place called Grumpy’s, a few miles down the road.
“They’re probably closed now,” he warns.
Starving, we head up to the convenience shop adjacent to the office and buy hot dogs to roast over the fire, plus bright yellow mustard and squishy white buns—the kind of meal that is forbidden in a proper kitchen. On a whim, I buy the ingredients for a kind of dessert we haven’t made since Molly’s childhood camping trips. We hike down to the water’s edge
where a teepee-shaped bonfire roars at the night sky. There are at least three discrete groups here, but all share that sort of instant camaraderie that seems to crop up among strangers at campgrounds. They make room for us in the firelit circle and we roast hot dogs, sharing the extras.
It’s amazingly tranquil around the pond, the sky intensely black in the absence of city lights. It’s so dark you can make out the colors of the stars—red and violet, silver and the shimmering green of moss in shadow. Their reflections glow like coins on the surface of the water.
Molly and I sit shoulder-to-shoulder and make small talk with the other travelers. There’s a young family from Cottage Grove, who just sold their house and are moving to Cleveland. A not-so-young family is there, too. The parents are about my age, but the kids are little, with Asian features, so I assume they’re adopted. A retired couple, who seem self-contained and not as eager to mingle, tell us they’re on a monthlong driving tour of the mid-west. Molly, of course, gravitates toward two boys who seem to be about her age. They’re juniors at Penn State, so leaving home is routine to them, and they’re driving themselves.
She seems to have forgotten about dessert, but the younger kids eagerly gather around when I ask them if they want to help. I demonstrate how to put a little whipping cream and sugar into a small Ziploc bag. The sealed bag then goes into a larger plastic bag of ice and salt. This is the kids’ favorite part—you shake until the cream and sugar in the sealed bag turns to ice cream.
“What a great trick,” the young mother says to me, watching her little ones shiver and shake.
“I learned it from my mother.” I look across at Molly, who is now explaining the process to the college boys, who are totally into it. Before long, everyone around the campfire is making ice cream in a bag, the kids turning it into a wild dance. Sparks land on someone’s blanket, and a tiny flame ignites. Fortunately, it is spotted and beaten out. People tuck their loose blankets away from the fire, and we’re more vigilant after that.
Everyone pronounces the ice cream delicious. In fact, it’s a bit bland, but flavored by the fun we had making it. One of the college boys plays a harmonica. Then, possessed by the silliness of knowing we’ll never see these people again, Molly and I sing “You Are My Sunshine” in perfect harmony, and our listeners are polite enough to clap. We stay by the fire way too late, until I feel the stiffness of the long day and the cold night at my back.
“I’m heading to bed,” I tell Molly. I worry that she might want to linger here with the college boys. Her eyes glow when she talks to them. I battle the urge to remind her that these guys are strangers and we’re in a strange place. Pretty soon, I won’t be around to protect her at all, so I’d best get used to the churning nervousness in my gut.
She surprises me by getting up and helping collect the trash and leftovers. “I’m going to turn in, too. If we get an early start, we can make up for the time we lost today.”
We didn’t lose any time. I know exactly how and where we spent it, and I wouldn’t change a thing.
As we walk together to our cabin, Molly says, “Those kids loved making the ice cream.”
“Remember the first time I made it with you?”
“The Brownie campout at Lake Pegasus. I was—what—six years old? And I had the coolest mom.”
What I remember about that campout was feeling inadequate. The professional moms, as I’d come to regard them, had remembered everything from bug spray to breakfast bars. They knew how to roast a whole meal in a foil packet, braid a lanyard into a friendship bracelet and name the constellations. My clever little ice cream trick didn’t seem like much. Now I’m ridiculously pleased to know she thought I was the coolest.
Molly goes off to shower. I flip through the Triple-A book, wondering what tomorrow will bring. On the back cover is an ad I never noticed before, with a list of phone numbers—who to call in event of a breakdown.
DAY FOUR
Odometer Reading 122,639
As her father and brother constructed the simple, sturdy shelter that might house generations after her, a young girl at her mother’s knee would work her own Log Cabin. It became the quintessential American quilt.
—Sandi Fox, Small Endearments: 19th Century Quilts for Children
Chapter Six
The next day we make tracks and we’re curiously quiet with one another, both lost in our private worlds and lulled by the monotony of the road. We stop for the night at a far more conventional place, one with wireless internet and pay-per-view movies. We are not nearly as entertained by this as we were by last night’s bungalows and campfire. The room smells of new carpet and cleaning solution. The beds are like two rectangular rafts, covered in beige spreads.
“Let’s go out,” I say, opening the door to the parking lot to scan the neon collage of signs along the main drag.
Molly looks at me as if I’ve sprouted horns. “What do you mean, out? We already had dinner.”
“I mean out. To one of these clubs.”
“And do what?”
I have to think for a minute. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone to a club. “Get something to drink,” I explain. “I’m sure bartenders still remember how to make a Shirley Temple. We can people-watch and listen to music.”
“What if I get carded?”
“It’s legal for you to be in a bar in Ohio so long as you aren’t served.”
“You checked?”
“I always check.”
She looks so dubious that I feel vaguely insulted. “What?”
“It’s just weird going clubbing with your mom.”
“We’re not going clubbing. We’re going to a club, just to get out a little bit. Nothing else seems to be open.”
“That’s weird.”
“Fine. Let’s stay here. You can watch Simpsons reruns and I’ll work on the quilt and reminisce about the past.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re headed out the door. Molly spent the entire preparation time in front of the mirror. I have to admit, she has a knack for primping. Her eyes are now smoky around the edges, her hair glossy and her lips slick and pink. She gives me the once-over and frowns again.
“I’ve seen that shirt before, Mom.”
“I never realized you noticed this shirt before.” I smooth my hands down the polished cotton. Except it’s not so polished anymore. I think the polish wore off some time ago.
“Isn’t it kind of…old?”
“It still fits. It’s in perfectly good shape.”
“But you’ve had it forever. Those jeans, too, and the shoes. And the purse. You carried that purse when you drove first-grade carpool.”
“I take care of my belongings,” I explain. “It’s a virtue.”
“Sure, but…Mom? You keep things too long.”
She speaks kindly, yet I know what she’s saying. Although I’ve always been quick to get something new for Molly, I never paid much attention to my wardrobe. Other than the occasional school event, I don’t tend to need much in the way of clothes. I can sew like the wind, but I like doing costumes and crafts, not blouses and shifts. And I’ve never been much for shopping. I laugh at Molly as I grab a light jacket and my purse. “Trust me, the world is not interested in my lack of style sense. Especially not when I’m with a girl who’s flaunting her midriff.”
“I’m not flaunting.” She checks out her cropped shirt in the mirror.
A year ago, she had begged us to let her get a tattoo and, of course, we refused. Once she turned eighteen, she didn’t need our permission but, to my immense relief, she didn’t run out to the tattoo parlor. Maybe she forgot it was the one thing that was going to make her life complete. I’m not about to remind her.
We walk out together into the twilight, and the breeze holds just the faintest hint of the coming fall. There’s none of the coolness of autumn in it, but a nearly ineffable dry scent. The smell of something just past ripeness.
The main street is lined with mid-twentieth-century buildings of blond brick
or cut stone. The shops and banks are closed, window shades pulled like half-lidded eyes, but in the center of the block, the sound of music and laughter streams from three different clubs.
One of them, called Grins, has a sandwich board out front boasting No Cover. Across the street is Tierra del Fuego, featuring unspecified live music, and two doors down is a place called Home Base. Twinkling lights surround a picture of Beulah Davis, and we choose that club because she has the same last name as us and because I like her picture. She’s smiling, though there’s a wistful look in her eyes. Her hands, draped over an acoustic guitar, look strong, capable of bearing the weight of a large talent.
We enter between sets. Canned music pulsates from hidden speakers. The place is crowded with people clustered around bar-height tables. The yeasty scent of beer hangs in the air. A group of guys is playing pool under a domed light with a Labatts insignia. In the corner, the musical set is dark and quiet, two guitars—acoustic and steel—poised in their holders like wallflowers waiting to be asked for a dance.
I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness, and a wave of uncertainty hits me. I can feel Molly’s hesitation, too, and unthinkingly I grab her hand, still the mom, leading her to a booth that has a view of the dance floor and stage. A good number of couples are swaying in the darkness, the women’s bare, soft arms draped around men’s shoulders.
I miss Dan. It hits me suddenly, a swell of nostalgia. He’s not fond of dancing, but he’s fond of me. Sometimes he has no choice but to sweep me into his arms and dance with me.
Molly orders a 7UP with lime, and I ask for a beer on tap.
“I’ll need to see some ID,” the waitress says.
“The beer’s for me.”
“ID, please,” she says, bending toward me.
This is both startling and flattering. I readily show her my driver’s license; she nods in satisfaction and heads for the bar. Molly samples the snack mix and scans the crowd. It’s a diverse bunch, people of all ages relaxing and talking, some of them drinking too much and laughing too loudly. A couple in a booth across the room appears to be in an argument, leaning toward each other, their mouths twisted, ugly with overenunciated insults.