Thou Shalt Not Road Trip

  She grabs her bags from the back of the Hummer and walks to an open stretch of road about twenty yards away. A few minutes later a car approaches: an ancient Cadillac with tinted glass. She raises her thumb, and the driver slows down and pulls to the side. Fran and I grab our bags and run to join her.

  The passenger window opens. “You got a problem?” The driver is a woman, at least sixty. She has a freshly lit cigarette in her right hand.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Alex. “Car broke down and we need a ride to Oklahoma City.”

  “Well, I can get you partway there. Who’s we?”

  Alex steps back and allows the woman a clear view of Fran and me. As she studies Fran, the corners of the woman’s mouth tilt down disapprovingly. “I’ll take him and you, but I ain’t taking her.”

  “What?” cries Alex.

  “You heard me. Far as I’m concerned, if kids has got the right to look however the hell they want, I’ve got the right to say they ain’t welcome in my car. You understand?”

  Fran sighs. “I understand perfectly.”

  “Please, ma’am,” I say, leaning forward. “My name is Luke Dorsey. I wrote Hallelujah. And this is my friend Fran.”

  The woman does a double take. “I heard about you on the radio. Your book too. Which is why I’ll gladly give y’all a ride. But I ain’t taking the chance of getting home without my wallet ’cause this one”—she stabs her cigarette in Fran’s direction—“decided to filch it.”

  “Fran’s not a thief,” I protest.

  I look to Fran to argue her case, but she just laughs. “Well, there was the vodka,” she says.

  “No, Matt paid for that,” says Alex, playing along.

  The woman purses her lips. “I’ll take you,” she says to me. “But only you.”

  She opens the passenger door and dribbles ash onto the seat. Maybe it’s the heat, but as I contemplate my next move I feel as though time has slowed down around me.

  “Go ahead, Luke,” says Alex. “We’ll come along with Matt.”

  I shake my head. “I’m staying.”

  “No,” says Fran. She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Please. Missing your signing because of me won’t help either of us.”

  I feel so hot, so tired as I grab hold of the doorframe. “Thanks for stopping, ma’am,” I say. “You have a safe journey now.”

  Slamming that door is the most satisfying thing I’ve done all week.

  3:30 P.M.

  Somewhere astoundingly hot, Oklahoma

  None of us expect the eighteen-wheeler to stop. Alex barely bothers to raise her hand. But when it pulls up a hundred yards away, we don’t waste any time.

  Alex opens the door, and the truck driver tugs the rim of his baseball cap in greeting. “Need a ride?” he asks.

  “Could sure do with one,” says Alex.

  “Okay, but three’ll be a squeeze.”

  “That’s okay. It’ll just be these two.”

  Fran and I turn at once. “What?”

  “You go ahead. Matt and I need to talk.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” says Fran.

  “No.” Alex bites the inside of her mouth. “I’ve got a lot to say, and it’ll be easier without an audience.”

  Fran and I climb in, me first, and Alex tosses our bags to us. As we pull away I can see her in the side mirror; she keeps waving until she disappears behind a cloud of dust.

  “You kids in trouble, by any chance?” the driver asks.

  Beside me, Fran tenses. I wish I could stop this from happening to her. I bet Teresa has never had to answer that question, even though she’s the definition of trouble.

  “I guess that’s a yes, then,” he says, when neither of us replies.

  Fran sighs. “This kid knocked me up.”

  I just about have a heart attack.

  “Dear Lord,” he says.

  “Actually, I’m kidding. But if you really want to hear my troubles, well, let’s see: I’m not speaking to my parents, my left ear’s infected ’cause I stuck a needle through it when I got drunk, and worst of all, I’m clean out of booze.” She huffs. “Speaking of which, you got any spare? I’m not picky.”

  The guy takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I-I wasn’t prying or nothing.” He lifts his cap and pulls it down again, fingers shaking. “I just thought… well, maybe you needed some help. Only seemed right to offer.”

  Fran turns bright red. “Oh, no, I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know why I said that. And it’s kind of you to ask. But we’re fine. Really.”

  I can see how much she wants to take the words back. It makes me wonder why she said them in the first place. Maybe she thinks that’s what people expect her to say, but so what?

  Fran is Teresa’s opposite in many ways, but it occurs to me they have one thing in common: Their appearances mask who they really are. Teresa’s good-girl persona had me fooled; but so did Fran’s bad-girl, don’t-mess-with-me act, and she’s been hiding behind it all year. How did it take me until now to realize it?

  The silence lingers as the guy adjusts his cap yet again. Then he clears his throat. “I haven’t seen my daughter in two months. She’s eighteen. Pregnant. Ran away from rehab without telling her mom and me. Now no one knows where she is.”

  I can feel Fran melting into the seat in shame. But only for a moment, and then she reaches across me and places her hand on the man’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I hope she contacts you soon.”

  He blinks back tears. “Yeah, well… we’ll see, you know? Not much I can do now ’cept keep looking for her.” He turns his attention to me. “What about you? Everything right in your world?”

  I look at my lap, and Fran’s outstretched arm. She’s still holding on to the guy, reminding him that he’s not alone, her thoughtless words already a distant memory. And the tattoos and purple nail polish can’t disguise the fact that this is the Fran I remember—the one who cared, and wasn’t afraid to show it. It ought to be me doing that, I realize. Everyone thinks I’m that person. But what do I have to say to this man? How can I possibly understand what he’s going through?

  Still Fran holds on tight, turning back the clock until she’s the girl I adored, with a heart big enough for everyone.

  “Yes,” I say finally. “Everything in my world is perfect.”

  7:25 P.M.

  The Divine Depot, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  This is the youngest crowd yet—maybe because it’s a Friday night, or because my interview with Orkle is gaining notoriety. Either way, they seem to have a lot more energy than me. By the time I’ve completed my introduction I’m pretty much pooped.

  “Are you okay?” asks a boy my age when I tug at my shirt collar for the twentieth time.

  “Yes, fine.”

  But I’m not fine. I spent twenty minutes showering, and when I emerged I turned the white hotel towel brown with Route 66 dust. I can still feel it in my pores, under the freshly ironed shirt and black pants. I wonder if I’ll ever feel clean again.

  “What’s it like being on tour?” asks the girl beside him.

  “Exhausting.” I can tell from her face that this is not the uplifting reply she’s looking for. “And… enlightening.” Now she seems happier. “Just this afternoon, I got a ride in a truck. And the driver is looking for his pregnant teen daughter who just ran away from rehab.”

  Now there’s silence. The girl seems flustered. “Oh,” she says, her voice about an octave higher than before. “And, uh… were you able to comfort him?”

  I imagine I’m back in the truck cab, but I can’t picture the guy at all. All I can see is Fran’s hand resting on his arm, her face a picture of empathy.

  “I guess that when I got out, he was more optimistic than before. But it had nothing to do with me.”

  “You’re just being modest,” she says. “What were you doing in a truck, anyway?”

  “We broke down on Route 66. So we left my brother with the car and hitched a ride.”

  There’s an unusually long si
lence before a woman raises her hand. “Who’s we?” she asks.

  Oh, crap. “Uh… my brother and me.”

  “But you said he stayed with the car.”

  “Yes, I did.” I try to think of a reasonable—and non-incriminating—response, but instead my brain returns to the cab again. Fran was touching the driver, not me, but her arm rested against my leg for almost a minute. Perhaps it means nothing; or perhaps it means she’s comfortable around me. I so want her to feel comfortable around me.

  “So who was with you?” the woman asks again.

  I can’t think straight. My brain has latched on to Fran and refuses to let go. I’m like a dog with a bone: single-minded and relentless.

  “Fran,” my mouth announces, before I can stop it.

  “Who’s Fran?”

  Think, Luke. Think. “A cousin.”

  “Is that the same cousin as in Amarillo yesterday?” shouts a girl at the back of the room.

  “Uh…” How does she know about yesterday’s signing? “Yes.”

  “Oh, good. My friend e-mailed me about that. It’s so sweet that you’re helping with her recovery.”

  I almost flinch, but turn it into a shrug at the last moment. “Well, it’s not that big a deal.”

  “Not for you, maybe. Because everything you do is so… extraordinary. Like that passage in Hallelujah about swimming across the Mississippi River—I read it, and I was like, seriously?”

  Thank goodness we’re changing topics. “Yeah, that’s what my editor said too.”

  “It must’ve been so hard.” The girl’s eyes are practically bugging out. “I read that the Mississippi has really strong currents. Polluted too.”

  “True. But I really wanted to get across this idea of putting your doubts aside and going for it, you know? Because every now and then, you get lucky, and something wonderful happens.”

  “I guess.” She puffs out her cheeks. “Still, I can’t imagine doing something that crazy.”

  A young boy raises his hand now. “That’s how I felt about the part in the desert.”

  “Realizations, chapter four,” I say. Another section my editor told me I wasn’t allowed to ditch.

  He nods. “That bit where the animals attacked, I practically peed myself.”

  His mother tilts her head and tsks loud enough for all of us to hear. Stifled laughter ripples around the room.

  “So which desert was it?” he asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “In Hallelujah—which desert are you talking about?”

  “Just a desert. Any desert,” I say. “It really doesn’t matter which.”

  The boy’s smile looks frozen in place. All around him, people exchange glances. I’ve clearly said something wrong, though I can’t figure out what.

  “Any other questions?” I ask.

  A stony silence has descended on the audience. When people speak, it’s to each other, mutterings I can’t decipher.

  Normally I’d be pleased to end things early, but something about the silence is really unsettling. “Anybody got a question? Seriously. Anything at all. Please?”

  Two boys about my age are elbowing each other in the ribs. Finally the taller one raises his arm. He’s chewing so much gum it takes him a moment to prepare his mouth for speaking.

  “Hey, man,” he says. “So, like, I just read this rumor online that you might’ve, you know, been emptying hotel minibars. Is that true?”

  I can literally feel the blood rushing to my face. Who would make up something so ridiculous? How could anyone possibly think…

  Oh. My. God.

  I picture Fran opening one after another miniature bottle. Sure, I haven’t taken anything from a minibar. But what about her?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I’m pretty sure most of the hotels haven’t even had minibars.” I think I sound persuasive, but the silence that greets my defense is anything but reassuring.

  “So you notice that sort of thing, then?” the boy asks.

  “Oh, no. No!”

  “But you don’t deny taking alcohol.”

  “Of course.”

  Gasps resonate throughout the hall, followed quickly by desperate whispers that leave me feeling weak-kneed and nauseous.

  “I mean, of course I deny taking alcohol. I’m on a book tour for Hallelujah. I’d be crazy to drink.”

  “But if you weren’t on tour?”

  “No! I still wouldn’t drink. Don’t drink. Honestly. I promise.”

  There’s a collective exhalation. They seem reassured.

  But I’m not. Because whoever leaked this information in the first place may be able to prove that Fran took something from a minibar. And if they do, I’ll be forced to explain why I’ve been sharing a room with a female “cousin” instead of my brother.

  These events aren’t getting any easier, that’s for sure. The question is whether I can survive two more of them.

  9:10 P.M.

  The Divine Depot, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  Matt’s standing by the main door of the bookstore as I leave, but I’m in such a daze it takes me a moment to notice him. I think it was Pastor Mike who told me to be ready for anything; or maybe it was someone else. Anyway, what does that even mean? Who can be ready for sleep-deprivation and hunger and several hundred people asking completely irrelevant questions? Seriously, who can do that?

  “Follow me,” says Matt.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out to eat. You look like you’re starving, and I think it’s affecting…” His words trail off.

  “Go on—say it.”

  “Okay. I caught the end of your performance, and it wasn’t exactly… inspirational.”

  I know he’s right, but I hate hearing him say it.

  “Did you hear the question about the minibars?” I ask him.

  “Yeah. That one’s got ugly written all over it.”

  He ushers me outside and around the corner. It’s no quieter here, but at least we won’t be overheard. Still, I can’t help scanning the streets in case Teresa and her photographer are nearby. I’ve become paranoid.

  “Listen, I know this is going to sound weird,” I say, “but can we stay radio silent until we get to St. Louis? It’s only two days. Then I’ll call Colin and explain everything.”

  “Sure. No problem. What about Mom and Dad?”

  “Shoot. I didn’t think of them. Geez, I haven’t spoken to them all week.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I called them this afternoon—explained the car problem. I figured Al would probably tell them eventually, so I should just fess up.”

  “And?”

  “And they definitely didn’t see the funny side.” He smiles, but it seems like hard work. “Anyway, they’re fine, and they know you’re busy. So you want a complete blackout on communications, right?”

  “Yeah. That’d probably be best.”

  “I’m all over it.” He takes out his cell phone and turns it off. “Now, about these events… I’m no expert, but it seems that as long as you’re smiling and saying stuff they want to hear, almost everyone is happy.”

  I haven’t got the energy to talk about this right now.

  “I get it,” he says. “Less talkie, more eatie.”

  We stop at an all-day-breakfast diner that claims to be the home of “The Coronary.” Matt selects a booth at the back and a waitress joins us almost immediately.

  “Coffee, please,” says Matt. “And my brother will have a Coronary.”

  She looks me up and down. “Indeed he will.”

  “So where’s the car?” I ask, once she has gone.

  “At the hotel. AAA towed us to a dealership, and the mechanics rodded out the radiator—said something about a blockage in a tube—and after that, it was fine. They also said it had nothing to do with hitting the possum, if you can believe it. I think Alex was disappointed. She figured it was divine retribution for the roadkill.”

  Hearing Alex’s name reminds me of wh
at’s so wrong about this scene. “Hold on. Why are you here? And where’s Fran? She said she was coming tonight.”

  Matt nods. “Yeah, well… I think they wanted some girl-bonding time, you know? At least, Alex did. I can’t speak for Fran, but they went out together anyhow.”

  “Oh.”

  The Coronary takes barely a minute to arrive, which is pretty disturbing. Matt hands over Colin’s credit card without a thought. He catches me watching. “It’s a legitimate expense,” he says.

  There are five strips of bacon on the plate, and another three on a saucer beside me. There’s also a mound of scrambled egg, four pieces of toast, three sausages, and something that’s either a burger or a sausage patty. Guess I’ll find out which.

  “Have we really been spending a hundred bucks a day on gas?” I ask.

  “Alex exaggerates.” Matt scratches his stubble. “It’s more like eighty.”

  “And I’m guessing this isn’t coming out of your pocket.”

  “It’s a legitimate—”

  “Tour expense. Yeah, I know.” I’m getting tired of that word: legitimate. “But a rental car was never part of the plan. Especially not an expensive one.”

  “Hey, it’s a whole lot cheaper than flying you from city to city. Which, by the way, is what Colin’s doing with that other author.”

  “Oh.” I didn’t know that. “Even so, he never would’ve let us get a Hummer.”

  “It was Sunday morning. I tried three rental places before I found one that was open.” He huffs. “We did what we had to.”

  “No, Matt, we did what you wanted to do. It’s not the same thing.”

  “Why are you getting mad at me? I’m trying to be nice.”

  I clatter the knife and fork onto the plate. “Why do you think? Because I barely make it to my events. I stink half the time ’cause I didn’t get to shower. I’m so tired, I say dumb stuff, and half the audience leaves before buying the book. But all you care about is Route 66 and stupid detours to the armpits of America. Haven’t you noticed? No one else gives a crap.”