Just After Sunset(92)

"Waterville?" Monette guessed.

The hitchhiker looked at him blankly.

"Okay," Monette said. "Whatever. Just tap me on the shoulder when we get where you're going."

The hitchhiker looked at him blankly.

"Well, I guess you will," Monette said. "Assuming you've even got a destination in mind, that is." He checked his rearview, then got rolling. "You're pretty much cut off, aren't you?"

The guy was still looking at him. He shrugged and put his palms over his ears.

"I know," Monette said, and merged. "Pretty much cut off. Phone lines down. But today I almost wish I was you and you were me." He paused. "Almost. Mind some music?"

And when the hitchhiker just turned his head away and looked out the window, Monette had to laugh at himself. Debussy, AC/DC, or Rush Limbaugh, it was all the same to this guy.

He had bought the new Josh Ritter CD for his daughter-it was her birthday in a week-but hadn't remembered to send it to her yet. Too many other things going on just lately. He set the cruise control once they'd cleared Portland, slit the wrapping with his thumb, and stuck the CD in the player. He supposed it was now technically a used CD, not the kind of thing you give your beloved only child. Well, he could always buy her another one. Assuming, that was, he still had money to buy one with.

Josh Ritter turned out to be pretty good. Kind of like early Dylan, only with a better attitude. As he listened, he mused on money. Affording a new CD for Kelsie's birthday was the least of his problems. The fact that what she really wanted-and needed-was a new laptop wasn't very high on the list either. If Barb had done what she said she had done-what the SAD office confirmed that she'd done-he didn't know how he was going to afford the kid's last year at Case Western. Even assuming he still had a job himself. That was a problem.

He turned the music up to drown the problem out and partially succeeded, but by the time they reached Gardiner, the last chord had died out. The hitchhiker's face and body were turned away to the passenger window. Monette could see only the back of his stained and faded duffle coat, with too-thin hair straggling down over the collar in bunches. It looked like there had been something printed on the back of the coat once, but now it was too faded to make out.

That's the story of this poor schmo's life, Monette thought.

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."