Under the Table(55)

“I’m Zoey. Thanks again.” She knew about the dangers of accepting rides from strangers, but this was the kind of serendipitous moment that you don’t take for granted.

Phyllis was not only strong, she was also wiry. While Zoey scaled the side of the truck cab like she was trying for an attempt at Mount Everest, Phyllis had already swung herself back in the saddle with the ease of a well-oiled spider monkey. She leaned way over and opened Zoey’s door for her final heave-ho.

Zoey settled into the passenger seat, preparing to share space with a cloud of stale cigarette smoke, a slew of empty coffee cups, and stacks of lady porn.

But she was mostly wrong. The inside of Phyllis’s cab was pristine and smelled like bubble gum. There was a cup of coffee in the cup holder, next to a liter bottle of water. Phyllis buckled her seat belt, cranked the mighty shifter into gear, and after checking that the coast was clear, the big rig jolted forward and they eased back into traffic.

“Where you headed?”

Phyllis had unwittingly asked the million-dollar question. Zoey didn’t want to go to Cleveland. It wasn’t just because of Derek either. Her parents would try to push her back into Derek’s arms. In their eyes, marriage was for better or for worse with few exceptions. There was nothing for her back in New York either, other than a sister who had deceived her and the love she had stupidly cast aside.

“Honestly?” Zoey said. “I don’t know.”

“You’re welcome to ride along with me for a spell. This load dumps in Detroit.”

The Motor City. It was as good a place as any. “Thanks. I’m going to take you up on that, if you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t’ve asked if I did.”

From all the stereotypical things Zoey knew about truckers, Phyllis was supposed to be longing for company and conversation. But there was nothing typical about the woman who had come to her rescue. Phyllis wasn’t chatty. Zoey couldn’t even consider her as overly friendly. She had no interest in probing Zoey for details on how she ended up a damsel in distress. She kept her eyes on the road and her vibe screamed that she didn’t suffer fools lightly. It was a safe assumption, considering she was willing to point a gun at Derek. That alone was reason enough for Zoey to like her.

“What made you want to be a truck driver?”

“I wanted to travel, but hate to fly. I figure, when I see everything there is to see here, then I’ll bite that bullet.”

Was her response designed to start the conversation, or end it? Zoey was too weary to analyze or worry that she needed to fill the dead air.

A Garth Brooks song began to play inside the cab, one of her mother’s favorites. A random memory flashed in her head. Zoey and Ruth as children, in the backseat of their parents’ minivan during countless road trips to various, usually historical family vacation destinations. The memory in question involved a trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. It was a game they played to kill time. Whenever they passed one of those big rigs, they would wait to see if the truck driver would look, then hold up one of their arms and pull it down repeatedly, a universal sign used as a request for the truck driver to sound the horn. The giggling that would result when the truck driver complied, the way they would stick their tongues out when they didn’t. It was Garth on the radio when Zoey knew they had outgrown the game and Ruth switched to giving a one-finger salute to stone-faced drivers who dared to ignore them. Ruth and Derek really did have lots in common.

Ruth. Always making up her own rules, usually ruining the game for both of them in the process. The same Ruth who sided with Derek. It was more than she wanted to think about right now. Zoey opted for closing her eyes, and within minutes she was asleep.

Zoey was startled out of her nap by the sound of the truck’s horn. It was a loud rapid beeping sequence, like the trucker’s version of Morse code. Another truck, on the opposite side of the highway, began doing the same. It was a volley of deep, rowdy, ear-vibrating sounds that had her bolting upright in her seat. It was almost dark.

“Sorry,” Phyllis said with a sideways glance. She flipped on the CB. “Nothing’s wrong. That was my husband.”

“You’re married?” Zoey asked, still trying to gather her bearings out of the sleep cobweb.

“Yeah, he’s my Bubba.”

“His name is Bubba?”

“His name is Jeff.” Phyllis gave a Zoey a smile. “Bubba is a little nickname that truckers call each other. Sometimes I call him Billy Big Rigger when I want to tick him off. He drives a route too. He’s heading to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”

It was the first real emotion she had displayed since picking Zoey up.

Suddenly the CB lit up and came alive. A man’s deep voice rang in the cabin.

“Hey, little mamma. Is that a seat cover I saw in there?”

Phyllis pushed the button on the side of the microphone and laughed into it. “That’s an affirmative. Glad to see you’re wearing your glasses.”

“I was getting worried about you, was afraid you got bit by a bear in the bushes. I expected to see you about an hour ago at the split.”

“Yeah, I was helping a damsel in distress. Say hi to Zoey.”

“Hi, Zoey.” Jeff obediently complied.

She pushed the button and the microphone in Zoey’s direction.

“Hi, Jeff.”