American Heart

  “I liked your other bumper stickers too,” I said. “You know what’s funny, or I guess lucky?”

  I waited for her to glance at me like, No I don’t. What is it?

  “Well,” I said. “I’ve always been curious about how quilts are made, how somebody gets started doing something like that. And I suppose you know all about it.”

  I thought that was pretty smart of me, changing the subject like that. And I kept feeling smart for a while. Just as I’d hoped, once I got her on the subject of quilts, forget it, she wasn’t thinking about Muslims, or terrorists, or illegals, or even the other cars flashing their lights behind us because even though that Striker could probably go two hundred miles an hour, she never took it above sixty. She just wanted to talk quilts. She told me about how she’d started making quilts with her sisters when she was young, and how she’d made one all by herself when she was just nine years old, and though the stitching wasn’t exactly right, most people couldn’t believe it was as good as it had been. And then when she was fourteen, she’d won a big contest, and somebody named Sharon had been so jealous, but too bad for Sharon, as everyone knew which one was the best—even though it was just a strip quilt. The stitching had been perfect on that one.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. It was getting harder to keep showing interest. To be clear, I don’t have anything against quilts. But after about an hour, when we were out in the country, and she was still talking about quilting and all her quilting accomplishments, not so much. I hoped Chloe appreciated I’d taken one for the team.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” the woman said. “But my eldest daughter won the same contest when she was fourteen. Now she lives out in California, but she’s got that same quilt on her and her husband’s bed, even now.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Hey, I see this seat has controls for heat and massage? Okay if I turn them on?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. That one’s not working right. I’ve got to take it in. Anyway, her win was really surprising for a lot of people, as she chose a very modern pattern. I’ll try and describe it. It was like . . .”

  And so on. And so on. I was stuck in listening hell. And it’s not like the scenery was that interesting, either—just winter-dead fields and every now and then a billboard advertising homemade fudge or an adult video store at the next exit. I could see in through the windows of cars in the passing lane. Most people were just driving by themselves, probably listening to music as loud as they wanted, or just quiet if they preferred that. I glanced in the back and saw Chloe was asleep, her mouth open, her head lolling on one shoulder.

  “And a gun-boat quilt,” the woman said, “that’s what they called quilts made by Southern women during the Civil War to raise funds for gun boats.”

  “Thanks,” I said, real firm, hoping she’d take the hint. “Now I feel like I know what I was curious about. Like everything. I know everything I wanted to know. Thank you.”

  That didn’t do any good. Neither did me asking if she had any pets, or if she’d seen any good movies lately. She stayed focused on quilts. She told me how she got the best loft. She told me how she’d learned the feather stitch, the satin stitch, the running stitch, and the French knot.

  “How long do you think the average quilt lasts?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, leaning against my window. I just wanted to watch the cobra hood ornament coast over the road.

  “Just guess,” she said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Guess!”

  I held up my hands and turned back to her. “A hundred years!”

  She looked at me, her mouth open. “Wow,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”

  Around the time we got to her telling me what a wedding ring pattern was, my eyelids got way heavy. I yawned twice, but she didn’t take the hint. So I got more obvious. I stopped saying “uh-huh” or even “hmm.” And then I bent my arm up so it was like a pillow against my window and leaned my head on the soft part of my forearm. I don’t know how long I got to close my eyes.

  “Hey!” she said, elbowing my arm. “If I gotta be awake, I should have company, don’t you think?”

  I opened my eyes and saw a digital billboard flickering up ahead. Even from a distance, I could see it was showing pictures of faces, two at a time, with CASH REWARD in bright red at the bottom. It wasn’t Chloe’s picture. But it could change to hers any second.

  “So, hey”—I turned to the Quilter, trying to sound and look calm—“what’s the hardest quilt you ever made? Like what’s the one that gave you the most trouble?” I leaned forward, thinking maybe I could block her view.

  She didn’t answer. She held up her finger like telling me to wait, and her gray eyes moved back and forth between the road ahead and the billboard.

  “They wouldn’t have to give me a penny,” she said.

  I nodded, holding my breath.

  We were just outside of Kansas City when the Quilter said she needed to stop at a gas station—“to use the facilities,” was how she put it. I had to pee myself, and so did Chloe, but we were both fast, and out waiting by the Striker while the Quilter was still inside. I didn’t know if Chloe had seen the Striker’s bumper stickers on her way to the restroom or coming back. If she had, she was probably thinking, Yeah, lady, I’d like nothing more than to get outta here, thank you very much. In fact, why don’t you drive me to the border? I didn’t think I should bring them up.

  “You’re lucky you’re in the backseat,” I whispered, bringing my knee up by my waist to give my hips a stretch. “You’re not trapped in a four-hour talk-u-mentary about quilting. My God. I’m about to throw myself out the window.”

  Chloe gave me a scolding look, like the kind I got from the other girls at Berean Baptist if I said something about Mrs. Harrison or Pastor Rasmussen. So I guess it was the same thing for Muslims as it was for Christians—you weren’t allowed to talk about someone behind their backs, which to me seemed like a good way to take the joy out of life. It was true that I was biting the hand that fed me, or I guess the hand that gave us a ride. But still. It seemed to me that if somebody was going to drive around with bumper stickers telling you to get outta the country, you could at least let somebody make fun of them a little, Muslim or not.

  Chloe wasn’t having it, though.

  “Sorry,” I said, not meaning it. I turned away from the door to the gas station and changed my voice so I sounded like a robot. “I will not com-plain a-ny-more a-bout her talk-ing. I will be hap-py to hear about quilt-ing for as long as ne-cess-ar-y.”

  I knew I was being immature. But I was tired, and not happy at all about having to get back in the car. To my surprise, Chloe’s mouth did a funny thing, like she was trying to frown at me, but couldn’t quite manage it, and then—whoa, hold on, sound the alarm—it was pretty clear she was trying not to laugh.

  So of course as soon as we’re back on the highway, the Quilter told me something that made me feel bad for making fun of her. Basically, the whole reason she’d gone down to St. Louis was that in her free time, when she wasn’t helping out with filing the insurance at her husband’s practice, she made grief quilts, which were quilts made out of pieces of clothing of people who’d died. She figured that over the years, she’d made about fifty or sixty of them. That was what she was doing now, driving a box of clothes back from St. Louis for some poor woman who’d lost her son and didn’t know what to do with his baby clothes and blankets. When she got back to her house, she said, she’d figure out the best pattern for what she had to work with, and then start cutting up the material.

  “How long does it take you to make one of those?” I couldn’t believe I was asking her a quilt question, getting her started again. But I really wanted to know.

  “Hmmm.” She tilted her head. “About twenty hours for a smaller one. I have to space it out, of course.”

  “How much do you charge?” Not like I was in the market for one. But I wouldn’t have minded having a quilt like that
of my dad’s clothes, and I didn’t even remember him. Anyway, his clothes were long gone by now.

  “I don’t charge anything.” She glanced at me, her mouth wrinkled up like she was looking at a dead animal. “It’s just something nice I do.”

  “For strangers? These aren’t people you know?”

  “They’re my fellow human beings. In pain,” she said, and I could tell from the look on her face that she didn’t think it was so great she had to explain this to me, even though I was one of the two people she’d just charged for gas money even though she was already making the trip. I turned around and saw Chloe staring out the window. I didn’t know if she’d been listening or not.

  We passed a car lot with a big video screen that, to my relief, only flashed on the different models of cars they had. An American flag snapped in the wind at half-mast above the lot.

  “Why’s it at half-mast?” I asked. “Did somebody die?”

  Now the Quilter looked at me like I was crazy.

  “I imagine it’s for the bombing,” she said, with the same smirk she’d used to ask me if I’d heard of J. C. Penney.

  “What bombing?”

  She glanced at me again. “In Detroit? You didn’t hear? Seven people were killed by a bomb last night. Seven Americans. Innocent people. Not doing anything but riding a bus home from work. Those crazies blew it up.”

  My stomach seized as if we’d lurched to a stop, but the car was still gliding along. I didn’t risk looking back at Chloe. She better be listening now.

  “They know who did it, then?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. But I already knew who she meant, who the crazies were. When we’d first gotten in her car, back in St. Louis, she’d asked me if I liked her bumper stickers, and she’d said I’d better like them, especially today. She’d meant what happened in Detroit. That was why the video billboards were all showing pictures of Muslims, and not showing weather or traffic reports at all.

  But maybe they didn’t know for sure it was Muslims. Muslims weren’t the only ones who blew things up or shot people. Sometimes it was just a crazy white guy, born right here, and mad about something not going his way. Last year when the Statue of Liberty got bombed, everybody assumed it was Muslims, but it turned out to be a group from here that did it because they didn’t like the poem at the bottom.

  “You’re asking me who did it?” The Quilter blew through her paper-white teeth.

  She looked at me from the side, and I could see that she didn’t like that I’d asked the question. “They haven’t said who, officially. Not yet.” Her small eyes got smaller. “But pretend your life depended on it. And take a wild guess.”

  10

  YOU MIGHT THINK that the Walmart Supercenter in Cameron, Missouri, wouldn’t be that crowded on a Thursday afternoon in January, the sky threatening cold rain. But you would be wrong. The Quilter had to circle the entire lot twice before she found a spot she liked, and when she was pulling into it, she almost hit a man carrying a box of firewood in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other. He gave her a mean look, and she gave him one right back.

  “People need to be careful,” she said, pushing the gear into park.

  I nodded, already feeling queasy. Walking into a crowded Walmart with a well-advertised fugitive didn’t seem like the smartest move. But the Quilter was already getting out of her car, so there was nothing to do but pick up my backpack and get out, too. As soon as I did, the wind pushed the car door against me, and I pulled my hood up. Chloe got out of the backseat with her head down, her blue hat already pulled low.

  “That wind, huh?” the Quilter yelled. Her blond hair was flying all around, and so was the fringe on her coat.

  We’d only been walking for about ten seconds when I noticed a big man in a flannel jacket watching us. He’d just finished loading his groceries into his truck, and the door to the backseat was still open. I smiled fast and then looked away.

  “Excuse me,” he said. And then he said it again, like he wasn’t going to be ignored.

  All three of us turned. He took a step toward Chloe. Even in the cold, a layer of sweat pushed out of my hairline. I didn’t know what we would do if he recognized her. We didn’t have a plan.

  “She’s my aunt from Portugal!” I started. I had to shout because of the wind. “She doesn’t speak English!”

  “Okay.” The man stepped back, one pale palm raised. “I was just going to ask if she wanted my cart. They’re hard to come by once you get in.”

  “I’ll take it.” The Quilter stepped in front of me and took the cart. “Thank you so much! You have a nice day. God bless!”

  When we got to the front curb of the store, Chloe started rummaging through her messenger bag, and she kept doing that as we passed through the first set of automatic doors. Just above the second set of doors was a black-and-white screen showing what the security cameras saw, and I could see me in it, no problem, looking up with an open mouth. I could see the Quilter, too, pushing the empty cart. But all that showed of Chloe was the top of her hat and her white coat. I thought she was smart to hide her face, but inside the store, when the greeter said “Welcome to Walmart,” Chloe looked up to give a quick smile, and all the greeter did was smile back.

  Nobody was putting it together. It was like without the headscarf, and with the knit hat and the glasses, and maybe because she was walking next to me and now the Quilter, she just blended in. All she had to do was not talk.

  “I guess this is good-bye,” the Quilter said. She nodded at Chloe, then at me. “I hope you remember everything you learned today.” She leaned on the handle of the cart and put one hand on her lean hip. “I hope I wasn’t just talking my voice out for nothing.”

  “Thank you,” I managed. And then I added, more sincerely, “Thank you for the ride, too.”

  Over her shoulder, I could see a man wearing a GET ’EM OUTTA HERE T-shirt under his coat, a rifle slung over his shoulder. He was over by the greeting cards, trying to pick one out.

  “You’re welcome,” the Quilter said, already rolling the cart away. “You two be safe now.”

  I frowned at the fringe on the back of her coat. She’d said it like she was making a strong suggestion. Like being safe was something we could choose.

  There weren’t any available shopping carts, but that was fine. All we needed was a basket. Chloe was going over the handle of one with an antibacterial wipe when she nudged my arm, and touched her ear.

  “I know,” I whispered. “We’ll get that first, then just what we need to make a new sign.”

  That must have felt bad for her, being a grown woman but having to ask me for what she needed, like she was a little kid with her mom. We didn’t look at each other as we walked, but she stayed close to me, her gaze moving along the bottom shelf of every aisle. Some people glanced at us, and some didn’t. The stereo was playing that old doo-wop song, “One Fine Day,” and I tried to focus on its happy rhythm so I wouldn’t feel so tense. But I couldn’t forget it would only take one person to recognize her face.

  “One more thing,” I whispered, standing on my toes to look for the electronics section. Chloe nodded and followed me to the other side of the store. It was only when I stopped in front of the disposable phones that she gave me a nervous look. Too bad, I thought. She couldn’t say anything, not with so many people around. If I wanted a phone, I’d get one. I wanted to talk to Tess.

  At the register, the cashier asked if I wanted to buy a flag pin. “All the proceeds for today’s sales go to the victims’ families in Detroit.” He touched the glinting pin on his own blue smock. “I mean for just the pins,” he added quickly. “Not for everything.”

  I nodded. Even if I was by myself, I would have bought one, because of the families. I wasn’t just being smart.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll take two.”

  We got lunch at the little Subway right inside the Walmart. At Chloe’s request, I ordered her a salad with ranch dressing, and I got chips and a ham sandwich for myse
lf. I only took enough money from her to pay for her salad, so I was the one paying for the ham.

  As busy as the store was, it was late enough in the afternoon that the lunch crowd was long gone from the seating area. I found a table that didn’t have anyone close by except a short-haired mom with a baby and a toddler, and they were three tables away. Two men in overalls and work jackets were laughing about something in the far corner, and there were still oldies playing on the sound system, with the same lady’s voice breaking in every now and then to give coded messages to the employees. The toddler started to fuss at the mom about something, his voice high-pitched and whiny. So you couldn’t exactly hear a pin drop. I could have leaned across the table and said to Chloe in a normal voice, “Hello there, Muslim!” and probably nobody would have heard.

  Chloe didn’t seem to want to talk, though. Before she even took the lid off her salad, she opened the box of ear drops, took out the bottle, and tore off the plastic wrap around the cap with her teeth. She pulled up one side of her hat, laid her head on the table, bad ear up, and squeezed in a few drops. She stayed like that for a while, not even folding her arms under her head.

  I unwrapped my sandwich, looking up at the television on the wall behind Chloe. The volume was turned down, or I was too far away to hear, but I could see they were showing video of the blown-up bus in Detroit—flames shooting high out the windows, bright against the night sky. You could tell it was colder up there. Snowflakes fell in front of the camera, and even the newscasters wore hats or earmuffs. They interviewed people who were crying and shaking their heads, their gloved hands cupped over their mouths and noses. Sometimes the newscasters hugged people, or looked down like they were crying too. They showed video of the bus as it looked today, charred and still smoking, surrounded by armed guards and tape that said DO NOT CROSS, and lots of flowers and a few stuffed animals, too.