I flipped to the front of the book, searching. Not long ago, wedged between the pages for the entry on Handwriting was a photo of a young girl of about eight with freckles and short, dark hair. She stared seriously into the camera lens, standing next to a tire swing and a pickup truck with a cracked right headlight. After a moment, I realized I recognized it: I’d seen this same photo when I visited for my grandmother’s funeral. I turned the picture over, but there was no inscription. The next time I opened the H encyclopedia, the photo was gone.
Samantha walked into the room, coming to a stop in the exact center of the round, ropy rug. ‘I should go.’
I closed the book. ‘You’re not even staying for dinner?’
She fiddled with a strap on her purse. ‘I should get on the road.’
I ran my fingers over the encyclopedia’s bumpy cover, trying to remain expressionless. ‘Thanks for stopping by.’
Samantha looked over at the box of wine glasses, unopened on the dining-room table amid unfolded towels, empty pill bottles, a big box of disposable wipes. The wine box showed one of the glasses full of some thick, blood-colored wine, perhaps cabernet. It was the type that stained your teeth and lips, the kind-Stella would say-that dyed your shit black. We would never use them.
‘You should really clean up around here,’ Samantha finally said, her eyes still on the dining-room table. ‘All this might not be…good…for her.’
I slammed the encyclopedia on the coffee table, hot with rage. For a moment, I was positively tongue-tied. ‘You know, I hear the highway you’re taking to the conference has lots of accidents on it, too,’ I blurted out. ‘Just like the highway from Northglenn to here.’
She crossed her arms and looked away. ‘Summer.’
I gestured to her car out in the driveway. ‘And are you sure SUVs are reliable enough? I had a good friend who was in an accident in one. Rolled right over.’
A vein in Samantha’s neck pulsed. ‘Really?’
My insides felt blackened and thick. I didn’t even know what I was saying. ‘No,’ I admitted, staring at the floor.
‘Do you feel overworked here?’ Samantha asked. ‘I might know someone out here who could do something for you. Cleaning, odd jobs, any of that.’
‘We’re fine. We don’t need anything.’
‘I’m just trying to help.’
‘You could’ve fooled me.’
‘Look, if you’re going to guilt me into coming with you to this miracle healer and seeing this jackapoo or whatever it is, maybe I can change things around, but it’s really not the best time…I mean, it was tough even taking this day away…’
‘I’m not forcing you to do anything.’ I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘I know your job is important.’
Samantha opened and closed her mouth, like she was chewing gum. Her cell phone started to ring. Her face blossomed. ‘I should take this,’ she said. She started for the door. ‘Good luck with your excursion tomorrow. I’m sure it will go well.’ And then she unfolded her phone. ‘Hello?’ she chirped into the receiver, her voice like a ballet dancer, straightening up and snapping into position as the music began. ‘Oh, David! Yes, of course. No, it’s wonderful to hear from you-I thought I would! I saw that look on your face when you saw the house on Currier Court!’
She put her hand on the doorknob, turned it, and crunched through the gravel path to the car. I could hear her high, happy voice the whole way to the road, and I was sure Stella could, too.
22
Things started badly on our journey to Cheveyo. Stella kept coming up with excuses not to go. Each was wilder than the next: She wanted to stay home and watch Survivor. She had a horrible feeling aliens were going to abduct most of the East Coast this weekend, spanning as far as Lancaster, where we were going, shutting off roads and prohibiting us from returning to Cobalt.
We had a hard time locking the house’s front door, something we usually never bothered with. The lock kept sticking, and the barrel wobbled. Stella told me just to leave it, and eventually we did. This annoyed her, though, and she fidgeted in her seat as we rumbled up the gravel drive to the main road. It got to the point where if she would have just said, I don’t want to do this. I don’t feel well, I would’ve turned around the car and taken her back. But she had to make it outrageous.
The day steadily declined from there: our cones from the Dairy Queen just outside Cobalt tasted funny, like sawdust. Stella tossed hers out the window after just one lick; it splattered against a car’s windshield behind us. The driver laid on his horn, then pulled over. ‘Maybe we should pull over, too.’ I glanced at the rear-view mirror. The ice cream had dripped down over the other car’s windshield, onto the hood, and into the grille. The driver had definitely gotten our license plate by now.
‘Just drive!’ Stella screamed, as if we’d just robbed a bank. ‘Keep driving!’
Late afternoon, we pulled over at a Bob Evans. Our waitress had pink streaks in her hair, a pierced nose, fishnet stockings, and combat boots, well-worn even though she’d never see battle. She sat us in a booth.
‘So.’ Stella removed her silverware from the napkin. ‘I’m pretty sure the Jackalope Museum is on this road somewhere. I say, tomorrow, we head over there first thing.’