took a certain energy to lift his mind to the plane on which it could bring force to bear on a problem. Now this energy had deserted him.
One morning, a few days before the vacation ended, his father brought him outside to the garage. Laboriously, the old man bent down, turned the cross-shaped metal latch, and raised the creaking door. Inside, the family’s old powder-blue Valiant had been cleaned and polished.
“Yes?” said Milo.
“We’re getting a new one,” said his father. “Delivered tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Plymouth. It’s yours.”
Milo didn’t know what to say. He walked around to the driver’s window and looked in at the familiar seats. A pair of keys on the dashboard, tied together with string. He stepped over and shook his father’s hand.
The old man said, “In this kind of weather, use thirty-weight oil. Forty in the summer if it’s hot.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Your mother’s inside. It was her idea. She’ll want to know if you like it.”
“I do. I like it very much.”
That evening he called Cle again. This time her sister handed over the phone. He told her about the new car. She told him about her vacation. The Wells family owned a toboggan, and the sisters had taken it into the hills around Northfield, then cooked supper over a fire. They’d roasted a goose for Christmas and spent the rest of the days in Minneapolis, ice-skating on a lake and shopping.
There was a silence.
Finally she said, “Don’t you want to know whether I got you anything?”
“Do I?”
“Well, I might have.”
This knocked down the wall inside him. He told her he would drive across the Upper Peninsula and pick her up in the Valiant at her front door and bring her back to school.
“I already have my plane ticket, silly.”
“I’ll drive underneath the plane.”
She laughed.
“Really,” he said.
“That’s silly. I told you.”
“When do you leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Which flight?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“So I can make sure God protects it.”
“He doesn’t do individual flights.”
A silence. Then she said, “Actually, that was kind of sweet.”
Two days later at the American Airlines terminal in Minneapolis, he ran up the corridor waving a bright orange hunter’s hat. At the gate, the passengers were already lining up to board.
“Lord,” she said. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, I am.” He took her valise. “The car’s outside, Cle. Come on, I almost burned it out getting here. I’ll drive you all the way to your door.”
She looked around. “You’ll have to get rid of the hat, though.”
—
I T WAS A three-day trip that took them five. The roads were good, but snow stretched knee-high to the horizon. They stopped three times in the first hundred miles and tore at each other’s clothes—at the back of both rest stops between Minneapolis and Albert Lea, where she hung her Catholic-school sweater in the window and climbed past him into the backseat, and the third time on a picnic table beside a creek culvert that passed under the highway, his pants pulled down and her skirt pulled up, the whole thing hidden from the cars but not the trucks. Big rigs blared their horns as they passed. It was still broad daylight.
When they reached Albert Lea a lazy snow was filtering down. They turned west, then south onto 60 at Worthington, the clouds breaking up finally near Sioux City, where they came out onto the Missouri River under a clear sky at nightfall.
A huge barge lit from bow to stern was making its way up the dark waterway. “Our own private constellation,” he said.
“Floating toward us through the heavens.”
They got out of the car and stared. She cradled herself in the crook of his shoulder. They must have stood there for an hour in the windless night, silently watching as the lights moved up the river past them. Then the landscape turned black again. It might have been the happiest hour he’d ever
One morning, a few days before the vacation ended, his father brought him outside to the garage. Laboriously, the old man bent down, turned the cross-shaped metal latch, and raised the creaking door. Inside, the family’s old powder-blue Valiant had been cleaned and polished.
“Yes?” said Milo.
“We’re getting a new one,” said his father. “Delivered tomorrow.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Plymouth. It’s yours.”
Milo didn’t know what to say. He walked around to the driver’s window and looked in at the familiar seats. A pair of keys on the dashboard, tied together with string. He stepped over and shook his father’s hand.
The old man said, “In this kind of weather, use thirty-weight oil. Forty in the summer if it’s hot.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Your mother’s inside. It was her idea. She’ll want to know if you like it.”
“I do. I like it very much.”
That evening he called Cle again. This time her sister handed over the phone. He told her about the new car. She told him about her vacation. The Wells family owned a toboggan, and the sisters had taken it into the hills around Northfield, then cooked supper over a fire. They’d roasted a goose for Christmas and spent the rest of the days in Minneapolis, ice-skating on a lake and shopping.
There was a silence.
Finally she said, “Don’t you want to know whether I got you anything?”
“Do I?”
“Well, I might have.”
This knocked down the wall inside him. He told her he would drive across the Upper Peninsula and pick her up in the Valiant at her front door and bring her back to school.
“I already have my plane ticket, silly.”
“I’ll drive underneath the plane.”
She laughed.
“Really,” he said.
“That’s silly. I told you.”
“When do you leave?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
“Which flight?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“So I can make sure God protects it.”
“He doesn’t do individual flights.”
A silence. Then she said, “Actually, that was kind of sweet.”
Two days later at the American Airlines terminal in Minneapolis, he ran up the corridor waving a bright orange hunter’s hat. At the gate, the passengers were already lining up to board.
“Lord,” she said. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, I am.” He took her valise. “The car’s outside, Cle. Come on, I almost burned it out getting here. I’ll drive you all the way to your door.”
She looked around. “You’ll have to get rid of the hat, though.”
—
I T WAS A three-day trip that took them five. The roads were good, but snow stretched knee-high to the horizon. They stopped three times in the first hundred miles and tore at each other’s clothes—at the back of both rest stops between Minneapolis and Albert Lea, where she hung her Catholic-school sweater in the window and climbed past him into the backseat, and the third time on a picnic table beside a creek culvert that passed under the highway, his pants pulled down and her skirt pulled up, the whole thing hidden from the cars but not the trucks. Big rigs blared their horns as they passed. It was still broad daylight.
When they reached Albert Lea a lazy snow was filtering down. They turned west, then south onto 60 at Worthington, the clouds breaking up finally near Sioux City, where they came out onto the Missouri River under a clear sky at nightfall.
A huge barge lit from bow to stern was making its way up the dark waterway. “Our own private constellation,” he said.
“Floating toward us through the heavens.”
They got out of the car and stared. She cradled herself in the crook of his shoulder. They must have stood there for an hour in the windless night, silently watching as the lights moved up the river past them. Then the landscape turned black again. It might have been the happiest hour he’d ever
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