At first Monette couldn't decide if the hitchhiker was dozing or looking at the scenery. Then he noted the slight downward tilt of the man's head and the way his breath was fogging the glass of the passenger window, and decided dozing was more likely. And why not? The only thing more boring than the Maine Turnpike south of Augusta was the Maine Turnpike south of Augusta in a cold spring rain.
Monette had other CDs in the center console, but instead of rummaging through them, he turned off the car's sound system. And after he'd passed through the Gardiner toll station-not stopping, only slowing, the wonders of E-ZPass-he began to talk.
3
Monette stopped talking and checked his watch. It was quarter to noon, and the priest had said he had company coming for lunch. That the company was bringing lunch, actually.
"Father, I'm sorry this is taking so long. I'd speed it up if I knew how, but I don't."
"That's all right, son. I'm interested now."
"Your company-"
"Will wait while I'm doing the Lord's work. Son, did this man rob you?"
"No," Monette said. "Unless you count my peace of mind. Does that count?"
"Most assuredly. What did he do?"
"Nothing. Looked out the window. I thought he was dozing, but later I had reasons to think I was wrong about that."
"What did you do?"
"Talked about my wife," Monette said. Then he stopped and considered. "No, I didn't. I vented about my wife. I ranted about my wife. I spewed about my wife. I...you see..." He struggled with it, lips pressed tightly together, looking down at that big twisting fist of hands between his thighs. Finally he burst out, "He was a deaf-mute, don't you see? I could say anything and not have to listen to him make an analysis, give an opinion, or offer me sage advice. He was deaf, he was mute, hell, I thought he was probably asleep, and I could say any f**king thing I wanted to!"
In the booth with the file card pinned to the wall, Monette winced.
"Sorry, Father."
"What exactly did you say about her?" the priest asked.
"I told him she was fifty-four," Monette said. "That was how I started. Because that was the part...you know, that was the part I just couldn't swallow."
4
After the Gardiner tolls, the Maine Turnpike becomes a free road again, running through three hundred miles of f**k-all: woods, fields, the occasional house trailer with a satellite dish on the roof and a truck on blocks in the side yard. Except in the summer, it is sparsely traveled. Each car becomes its own little world. It occurred to Monette even then (perhaps it was the St. Christopher's medal swinging from the rearview, a gift from Barb in better, saner days) that it was like being in a rolling confessional. Still, he started slowly, as so many confessors do.
"I'm married," he said. "I'm fifty-five and my wife is fifty-four."
He considered this while the windshield wipers ticked back and forth.
"Fifty-four, Barbara's fifty-four. We've been married twenty-six years. One kid. A daughter. A lovely daughter. Kelsie Ann. She goes to school in Cleveland, and I don't know how I'm going to keep her there, because two weeks ago, with no warning, my wife turned into Mount St. Helens. Turns out she's got a boyfriend. Has had a boyfriend for almost two years. He's a teacher-well, of course he is, what else would he be?-but she calls him Cowboy Bob. Turns out a lot of those nights I thought she was at Cooperative Extension or Book Circle, she was drinking tequila shooters and line dancing with Cowboy Fucking Bob."
It was funny. Anyone could see that. It was sitcom shit if there had ever been sitcom shit. But his eyes-although tearless-were stinging as if they were full of poison ivy. He glanced to his right, but the hitchhiker was still mostly turned away, and now his forehead was leaning against the glass of the passenger window. Sleeping for sure.
Almost for sure.
Monette hadn't spoken of her betrayal aloud. Kelsie still didn't know, although the bubble of her ignorance would pop soon. The straws were flying in the wind-he'd hung up on three different reporters before leaving on this trip-but there was nothing they could print or broadcast yet. That would change soon, but Monette would go on getting by with No comment for as long as possible, mostly to spare himself embarrassment. In the meantime, though, he was commenting plenty, and doing so brought a great, angry relief. In a way it was like singing in the shower. Or vomiting there.