So Long, Chester Wheeler(81)

“I’ll tell you what you always tell me, Lewis. If you made it through Chester Wheeler, you can make it through anything.”

He kissed me briefly on the lips, then seemed to focus on something over my shoulder.

“She’s frowning at me,” he said.

I looked around.

She was looking down at us from the Winnebago’s high seat, looking like a judge on a bench. Again, overplaying her role.

“You’re going to tell her,” Brian said. “Right?”

“Yes. I’m going to tell her. But maybe on the way back, so I don’t completely ruin her family reunion.” I kissed him this time, also briefly. “Wish me luck. I’ll need it.”

“You’ll do fine. Got your phone?”

“Yes. Got it. I’ll call you every night.”

I ran around the beast and jumped into the driver’s seat. Started it up. I waved at Brian and he waved back. Estelle scowled. Then we were moving.

“We’re on our way,” I said.

“I find that so disturbing.”

“What? That we’re on our way?”

“No. The kissing. On the street. Men didn’t do that in my day. Oh, there were men who were . . . you know . . . like that. And some women even, or so they say, though I never met any. So I can’t say for a fact.”

“There were women,” I said. “And you met some.”

“I just told you I never did.”

“And I’m telling you yes you did, but you just didn’t know it.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. But anyway, my point is that it all took place in private.”

“Which underscores the point I just made.”

“So much of the time when you talk, I have no idea what you’re saying.”

I gave up and fell silent.

I was navigating some fairly narrow streets on our way to the expressway, and I had forgotten how stressful city driving was in that boat.

Estelle would not let it drop.

“What I’m saying is, it’s disturbing to me. It makes me a little nauseous. It would never have happened in my day. That’s what I’m saying.”

Already I could feel myself sinking under the strain of this endeavor. And we were only a few minutes in.

“I’m not saying this to be mean, Estelle, but this is not your day. I’m sorry. You have to let go and let things change. If you don’t, you’re only setting yourself up to be unhappy.”

“I don’t like it when things change.”

So there it is, I thought. My reminder that none of this is personal.

“I know you don’t,” I said, and I could hear the sudden difference in my own voice. I could hear myself soften. “I know change scares you and makes you feel like everything is spinning out of your control.”

I knew I had hit the bull’s-eye, because she clammed up and looked out the window in silence.

“I’m not going to change myself to make you feel less disturbed,” I added. Because I felt it needed to be said. “It’s not what people do. It’s above and beyond what we owe each other. What if I told you I wanted you to change into somebody who accepts me, because I get upset when you don’t? Would you change?”

“Of course not. I am who I am and I’ve got a perfect right to be.”

I waited for her to get it. Nothing happened.

“I’m waiting for you to get it,” I said.

“Get what?”

I sighed.

Nothing more was said for several miles.

When I got out onto the highway, I set up in the right lane and breathed a sigh of relief.

“You can’t just stay in the right lane all the way to South Dakota,” she said a few miles later.

It briefly flitted through my mind that she might be channeling Chester Wheeler.

“Sure I can. Why can’t I?”

“It’ll add too much time to the trip. I’ll be late to my reunion.”

“No you won’t. We’re getting in tomorrow evening. Your family reunion doesn’t start until Saturday morning.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“No, tomorrow is Friday.”

“That would make this Thursday.”

“Yes it would. And it is. It’s Thursday.”

I held my phone out to her with the screen turned in her direction.

“What am I looking at?” she asked.

“The little icon that looks like a calendar page.”

“I don’t see . . .”

“Top row.”

“Oh,” she said. Then, “What do you know? It’s Thursday.”

She didn’t bring up timing again. And she never gave me any more trouble about driving in the right-hand lane.



Near the state line with Pennsylvania, Estelle opened up again and told me the story of Mount Rushmore. She was talking a lot, for Estelle, which meant the big trip had her more nervous than she was letting on. It also meant my nerves were in for a beating.

“Thirty-seven years I lived with that man in Spearfish, South Dakota. Maybe seventy miles from Mount Rushmore. It was new back then. Hadn’t been finished all that long, and it was a big deal. Everybody either loved it or hated it, but it was a big deal. Controversial.”