He Started It(23)

I still remember the message on this car, though. Bright green paint, like a grasshopper.

I’m interrupted again, this time by Eddie.

“Stop,” he says.

“I know, it’s been too long,” I say.

“And it’s not why we’re here.”

But it’s why I’m here.

Eddie motions to Portia, calling her over to join us. She walks up to us, holding a spray can. Her index finger is now covered in black paint.

“What?” she says.

“I just want to make sure we’re all on the same page,” he says.

Portia looks at me, then up at the car. “About graffiti?”

“About this trip,” he says. Add a few more years and a few more pounds, and he would look just like Dad. “We’re here to put Grandpa where he wants to be. That’s it.”

“And collect our inheritance,” Portia says.

“Exactly.” He nods. “But that’s it. We aren’t here for anything else.”

I am.

“Okay?” Eddie says.

Portia looks at me and shrugs.

I shrug back. “Okay.”

Lie.

“Good.” He claps his hands together, perhaps a signal of success. He and Portia return to their previous tasks while I find a can of green paint. Bright green paint. I have to stretch up on my tiptoes to write what used to be there.

    Here I am

8/



I wasn’t the one who wrote it the first time, but I know who did. The original message was just like that, with the date left unfinished. I paint it just like it was. My handwriting isn’t the same, but it’s close. It makes me feel better that her graffiti is back where it belongs.

Back where she belongs.

You knew about her. Even if you didn’t consciously know, you knew because it’s how these stories go. It’s a law. Maybe even written in stone by now.

There’s always a missing girl.





Our motel near the Cadillac Ranch is the worst yet. Given where we’ve been, that’s saying something. The Whirlybird has always been a dump, from the paper-thin walls to the walk-up window that serves as a check-in desk and a place to buy cigarettes. Maybe other things as well. They have to be doing something to stay in business.

“Tomorrow I want to stay in a decent place,” I say. “It doesn’t have to be fancy, just clean with real towels, maybe a coffeemaker.”

“Sounds good to me,” Felix says.

“And for once, Portia should have her own room. We can afford that for one night.”

“Aren’t you a princess,” Felix says.

I smile. “Bow next time you say that.”

“Will do,” he says. “That was cool today. The Cadillacs.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Lie.

“What did you paint?” he says.

“Just the usual. Initials, the date. The ‘I was here’ thing.”

“Me too.”

It’s late. Felix is already in bed and shutting down his laptop. The day has been a long one and I should be tired. Instead, I stand up so fast it startles him.

“You okay?” he says. Just like I knew he would.

“Fine. I just want to get a soda from the vending machine. Maybe walk around a minute. It’s stuffy in here.”

“Oh.” He looks at me, then at the door. “You want me to come with?”

“No, no. You get some rest. I’ll be fine.”

“Take your phone.”

I do. I bring my phone and my wallet, and as soon as I walk out of that musty room, I take a big gulp of cool air.

There’s nothing around, nothing to see except a clear sky. Five cars are in the parking lot; one is ours and the others are scattered in front of a few rooms. All have out-of-state license plates. More road-trippers as unlucky as us to stay here.

Right by the street entrance, there’s an old wooden chair. Functional, yet ugly. It looks like someone put it out for the trash but no one picked it up. I don’t have my disinfectant spray; however, the wood does look cleaner than the ground. I sit.

    Here I am

8/



I’ve always wondered if she was going to add more. Her name, maybe. I don’t know why. Even if she did, it was probably nothing. Some silly, rambling thing. Something a seventeen-year-old girl thought was important enough to memorialize in green paint on a Cadillac. That’s why I painted it again: because it deserves to be there. Her words should be where she wants them.

Felix doesn’t know about her, the same way he doesn’t know about our parents or about what happened on the first road trip. I’m not going to tell him unless I have to.

My phone buzzes. I don’t look at first, assuming it’s Felix, but it’s Portia. She says:


Eddie thinks you’re losing it



I answer:


He’s assuming I ever had it?


Nice. You’re up?


Outside. Look for the wooden chair.



Minutes later, I hear her footsteps.

“Scoot,” she says.

I do. We share, each with one butt cheek on and one off.

“What did he say?” I ask.