by Wenke, John;
“That’s interesting,” Charles mutters.
“What?” Mavis chirps. If the steering wheel were alive, it would be yelping.
“Oh, sorry. I was thinking out loud. I do that sometimes.”
“Are you finished? What do you think?”
He rustles the pages.
“I have a page and a half to go. Let me finish and we’ll talk.”
Mavis feels rebuked. She’s sure he finds her speech laughable. She finds it laughable. What does she know about the “social good” or “youth’s empowerment of the future”? Mavis wants to rip the speech from his hands and stuff it under the seat. Instead, she skirts to the left and passes a wheezing dump truck. But there is no open space. A single row of vehicles heaves forward and slows down.
“Well, I’m done,” Charles declares, smiling. He taps the pages on his knees, evens their edges and slides the script into a new beige folder. Outside a rusting white mobile home seems to wobble in front of a squat graying chicken house. A rooster flaps its wings atop a dirt mound. A large black and white cat sleeps in the shade of a willow tree. Only two miles ahead waits the interchange for the Route One toll road that will express them to the beach.
“What do you think? I still have time to revise it.” Or throw the damn thing out the window.
“Not everybody will know how to take it,” Charles says, smiling, “and that’s because it’s probably too interesting.”
Mavis’ knuckles stretch her skin.
“Well, I’m not surprised. I knew it was bad. If I’m going to make a fool of myself, let me know. I mean, really. I want the truth. No soft soap.”
“You won’t be making a fool of yourself. In fact—hey, watch out!”
The decayed, ancient Plymouth Voyager in front of them has veered left, crossing the double yellow line to avoid a bouncing, jagged machine part that must have fallen from the back of the jalopy truck piled high with scrap metal. The Voyager zips behind the jalopy and narrowly misses a horn-honking tractor trailer carrying doomed Perdue chickens in piled mesh crates. The truck driver is soundlessly screaming and waving a fist as Mavis slams the brakes, wanting to angle right, but there is no shoulder, just a drop-off into a drainage ditch. The hopping slab has nowhere to go but underneath the Tahoe, where it bangs like a spastic sledgehammer.
“My God!” Mavis exclaims.
“Just slow down,” Charles yells. “Stay in the lane and slow down.” He turns and looks out the back window. “There’s nobody behind us. That thing’s still jumping around, but it’s twisting off the road. It looks like some kind of engine part.”
Up ahead, the Voyager is passing the jalopy. As Mavis slows, the heap atop the jalopy gets smaller and smaller.
“Are we all right?” Mavis shouts. “I should’ve turned somewhere.”
“Letting that thing hit you was the only thing to do.”
“I’m still shaking. Do you think there’s damage?”
“We’re still driving. That’s a good sign. There’s a shoulder up ahead. You should pull over, and I’ll have a look.”
As Mavis steps out of the car, she smells gasoline. Charles is already behind the car looking at the trail of clear smelly liquid. He lays a white handkerchief on the stubbly shoulder, puts one knee on it, and cranes his head under the bumper.
“The damn thing ruptured your gas tank. But on the other hand, we’re lucky. If it sparked we might’ve blown up. We’d be on the evening news.”
“I don’t believe it!” she shouts. The fuel engulfs a pothole and flows into a gully. “Are we just stuck here? I mean, I can’t drive it. I can’t be driving with a hole in the tank. I mean, we’re still more than fifty miles from Rehoboth. It’s almost 4:20 and cocktails start at six.”
Charles feels buoyant. His early training, first as an information officer in the last days of Saigon and then as a city reporter for the defunct Baltimore Evening Sun, helped make him comfortable in situations where the script has unraveled.
“Just relax. We go back, get my car and we’ll be there in plenty of time. First, we need to report this and get the fire company out here. All this gasoline is a problem.”
“Shit!” Mavis blurts, punching her left palm with her right fist. “Shit! Shit!”
So she’s vulgar, too. If I wrote a speech like that, I’d be glad for a chance to miss the party. She should market it as a cure for insomnia.
Stop it, Meg. You’ll make me laugh. It’s close to being decent, but it doesn’t matter: those politicians and educational bureaucrats wouldn’t know a good speech if it bit them on the foot.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Listen to her. She talks like trash. I knew she was common.
“Calm down, Mavis. We’ll make a few calls and get on with it.”
“I forgot my cell. It’s charging on the kitchen counter. We’ll have to use yours.”
Charles scrunches his nose.
She doesn’t know how much you hate those things. She doesn’t know a thing about you.
“Well, that’s a bit of a wrinkle. I left mine home. When I get away, I like to be out of touch. Otherwise, what’s the point? Don’t worry, though. A Good Samaritan will stop. We can even walk. I think I saw a convenience store about a mile back. Somebody’ll have a phone.”
Mavis has both hands up, waving at a line of approaching vehicles. The first car has a big dent in the bumper and a smashed headlight. It’s a blue Subaru with two teenage boys in the front seat. Out the window flies a soda can, followed by an empty box of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Next a rumbling dump truck pulls a flatbed with a backhoe on it.
It serves you right for going out on me.
Don’t be jealous. I’m just along for the ride.
“Nobody’s going to stop,” Mavis complains. “It never fails. As soon as I want something, they take it away.”
“Maybe this’ll help.”
Charles takes the handkerchief from inside his jacket and slams it inside the driver’s door. Looking back down the road, he’s surprised to see a new Ford Crown Victoria flashing the right blinker and pulling to the shoulder behind them.
“They’re stopping,” Mavis shouts, waving and smiling. A woman wearing a pill box hat sits behind the wheel. The passenger wears a flopping cowboy hat, a paintbrush mustache, and black frame glasses. “Hey! I guess I need to have more faith in people.”
A Ford F-150 races past and pummels the air.
Mavis scurries toward the driver’s open window.
“We had a freak occurrence. A piece of metal punctured my gas tank.”
“Insurance’ll cover that,” the driver says. She speaks with a low grumbling sound, her tongue snaking out and licking the top of her lips. Exploded capillaries splotch her cheeks and forehead. Curly red hair bursts from beneath the pink pillbox hat. She croons in a cracked voice, “State Farm is there. Nationwide is on your side. Call GEICO direct and get a piece of the rock.”
“Those bummers won’t pay squat,” the passenger grunts. Mavis tilts her head to listen. “You better say it was jumping around.”
“It was. It—”
“We can’t repair that tank,” the driver moans, almost weeping. “The cat’s out of the bag. The milk’s spilt. The horses are out of the barn and the water’s over the damn bridge.”
“We have to get to Rehoboth,” Mavis sputters. “Do you have a phone?”
“Get in,” the passenger calls. “We’re going to Rehoboth to visit the famous factory outlets. I’m Ignatius, and my sweetheart here is Brunhilda.”
Mavis flings open the rear door, but Charles loops his fingers around her elbow.
“All I need is a phone,” Mavis says, shaking his hand away. “Do you happen to have a cell I could use for a minute?”
“No portable bells or cells,” Brunhilda laughs. “But we’ll find one. Let your fingers do the wa
lking. Reach out and touch someone. A little dab’ll do you.”
“Thanks a lot,” Charles announces, “but we’ll just wait for Triple A.”
Charles yanks her elbow, trying to work her away from the car.
Mavis whirls, shocked. She wriggles loose and teeters against the chassis. Has Charles lost his mind? When he goes for another grip, she pushes his hand away and slips into the back seat.
“Charles,” Mavis snaps, “we never called triple A. That’s the problem: no phone.”
She’s surprised to hear the bitchy tone she regularly used on Allen.
“Make it quick,” Ignatius grumbles. “Lift off is about to occur.”
“Yes,” Brunhilda replies, “we’re late for a very important date.”
“Mavis, we’d be better off waiting for the police.”
She slides to the far door, her mind tilting. Time is a panting deer. The sun is eating up the sky.
“This is the best way, Charles. You wait for the police, and I’ll be right back.”
“Back in your arms a-gain-n,” Brunhilda sings, “so satisfied.”
The Crown Vic lurches forward. Charles clings to the handle. He walks to keep up with the moving car.
“Wait with me, Mavis. Get out now.”
Brunhilda sings, “She’s leaving on a jet plane.”
“Shut the damn door!” Ignatius squawks. “The breeze is messing up her hair.”
Charles is jogging now, five miles an hour, then faster.
“Charles,” Mavis shouts. “Let go. You’ll get hurt.”
As the door pulls away, Charles sprints and flings himself inside and finds himself face down in Mavis’ lap.
I told you she’s a fool. Right now you could be having iced tea at your desk, feet up, watching the stock market ticker.
She’s rattled. She’s only thinking about getting there.
You should’ve let her go. Serves her right. I always hated high school principals. Did I ever tell you that?
A thousand times. Leave me be. I’ve got to think.
It was almost transparent. Brunhilda’s red wig was on crooked, and his beard sprouted here and there along his chin line in little island clumps. It was a little tougher with Ignatius, because she was hiding beneath the Panama hat.
Let this be a lesson, Charles. You can’t replace me. I would never have gotten into a car with this crew.
Still on the shoulder, the Crown Vic scatters gravel and clunks from pothole to pothole. Brunhilda whips the wheel to the left, gains the blacktop and guns it. Mavis is peering out the window.
“There’s a sign up ahead for a Seven Eleven. I’d slow down a little.”
The speedometer edges past eighty. Charles flicks the latch and tries to lift the lock. Ignatius turns around. The glasses are crooked. And they’re not even glasses—just empty black plastic frames attached to a bulbous plastic nose and a Groucho Marx mustache.
“Don’t worry, Charles,” she says. “You can’t fall out. Our last passengers were two teenagers from Altoona, Pennsylvania. To keep them safe we set the childhood safety locks. We dropped them off in a wooded area outside Harrisburg.”
“Brunhilda,” Mavis calls, her voice cracking, “you missed the turn.”
Charles has had enough. He lunges for the keys, but Ignatius swats his face with the back of her hand. In her right fist she wiggles a semi-automatic pistol.
Mavis screams. Charles flops back in his seat, rubbing his left eye. His contact is gone. Brunhilda beeps the horn and squeals, “I hate it when they take away the element of surprise. It never rains, but it pours. Individual results may vary.”
“What is this?” Mavis asks, gasping.
“A kidnapping,” Charles answers. He taps Brunhilda on the back. “Ain’t that right, fella?”
Ignatius whirls, mouth chomping, gun shaking up and down. She shouts, “Bang! Bang! Bang! Don’t you ever touch her again!”
Brunhilda chirps, “The life you save may be your own. A good man is hard to find. Look both ways before you leap. Actually Charles, this is a swap meet. Ignatius and I just love your outfits.”
Ignatius chuckles. “I can’t wait to go back and check Charles’ luggage. It’s is a whole lot better than internet shopping. It’s faster and you can see your actual colors.”
“Let us out of here this instant!” Mavis yells. Her throat feels scorched. Her chest muscles clench her ribs and stifle her breath. “I’m not fooling. I have an important speech to make tonight in Rehoboth Beach.”
“Okay,” Brunhilda clucks, “we’ll take the short cut.”
Wrenching the Crown Vic off the highway, he skids along the gravelly shoulder, skitters down an embankment, and careens toward a dirt road. Soon the car is swallowed by towering loblolly pines.
Mavis finds her breath, reaches forward, and shakes Brunhilda’s shoulder.
“We’ll have none of this. Go back. Now.”
Ignatius flips all the way around, waves her pistol at Mavis’ face, and sneers, “I’d stop that if I were you. You’ll be making your speech to some tree roots.”
“Stay calm, Mavis,” Charles says. “We don’t want more excitement than is necessary.” He pats her hand.
“Iggy, don’t they realize we came to Delaware for its famous tax-free shopping?”
“Brunhilda gets upset if she can’t do her shopping.”
“That’s right, dear. May I borrow the death device?”
Ignatius hands him the gun but immediately wangles another one at their faces.
Brunhilda lets loose a crazy loon laugh and fires four shots out the window. The bullets ping through the leaves. One gouges a four-inch strip of loblolly bark.
“I needed that.” He drops the gun on his lap. “I don’t just get upset.” And then he roars, “I get steamed, fried, burnt, toasted, roasted, broasted and smash-mouth pissed.” He sighs and smiles. “Did I leave anything out, dear?”
“No. That about says it all.”
You may be seeing me soon, Meg says.
Stop with that. I’ll have to move on these nuts. Right after the car stops.
But the car is not stopping. It bumps along a rutted road crowded with trees and bramble. A hundred yards ahead, Charles sees a large lake. Some ducks and geese paddle and flap in the reflection of tall pine trees.
“You would expect,” Ignatius says, “that a lake this pretty would be teeming with human activity—sailboats, chug boats, hikers, joggers.”
“Progress just isn’t what it used to be,” Brunhilda sighs, “though I have to say, I’m a little tired of joggers. Remember that one we picked up outside of Davenport, Iowa? She was nothing but complaints. I was so glad when she finally quieted down.”
Ignatius grunts, “Her jogging bra was too small for you.”
“I try not to complain, dear. I just remember what my mother said, ‘A stitch in time saves nine. A word to the wise is sufficient. No gain without pain. Fools make feasts and wise men eat them. So plow deep while sluggards sleep.’ Mommy had a million of them.”
Charles watches the gun in Ignatius’ right hand. It’s aimed at his chest and bobs with every rut in the washed-out road.
Whatever happens, Charles, it’s all your fault. Now you see what a little excitement can do for you.
Stop, Meg. I’m trying to think.
Charles glances at Mavis. She’s sitting straight up like a schoolgirl, fingers writhing on her lap. Her eyes are plaintive, pathetic, horrified. He reaches across the seat and takes her hand. He’s surprised when Mavis yanks it away and erupts, pounding the back of Ignatius’s seat with both fists.
“You can’t do this to us,” she screams. “We’re important people. I’m giving a speech, and Charles is a famous newscaster.”
Brunhilda slams the brakes and screams back.
“That’s enough! I’m
mad as hell and I can’t take it anymore!”
Charles and Mavis jerk forward and flop backwards. Ignatius pins her back to the dashboard. Charles jumps at the front seat. The idea is to slam their heads together, but he manages only to whack Ignatius’ Panama hat against the roof and sweep away Brunhilda’s hat and wig. Ignatius fires two bullets into the rear seat cushion. By now Brunhilda is out the front door, flapping his gun and yelling, “That ain’t no way to treat a lady, oh no. You’re ruining the fun. This was supposed to be fun.”
Brunhilda’s head is a round ball shaven to a shine.
Ignatius opens Mavis’ door. “Both of you out. She wants to get it over with.” Though her hat is gone, Ignatius still wears the Groucho Marx glasses and rubber nose. Her hair, cut close around the sides, is curly brown on top with splotches of purple and green. “That’s it. Get out slow and put your hands under your armpits. I want to see you flap your elbows. Like a chicken.”
Charles and Mavis stumble on the humped ground matted with straw-like pine needles. With elbows flapping, they stumble downhill toward the lake.
“Over here,” Ignatius calls, shaking the gun. She points under a black maple that hangs over the water. Charles and Mavis skid on dry, tumbling stones. With a snap, the trunk lid pops open. Brunhilda pulls out a coil of rope. “Directly under the tree. So nobody waterskiing past can see you.”
Brunhilda kicks through the brown pine needles and saunters down the pebbly hill. He looks like a bald Jackie Gleason.