silence as they sped across the spring landscape. Just across the Arkansas line, Delia’s adrenaline finally gave out, and she steered the car over to the side of the road. The two of them slept fitfully for several hours, Delia gripping her keys tightly as if she feared someone would steal the car.
Once they reached Tennessee, Delia drove as if her sanity depended on it. She made peanut butter and white bread sandwiches on the bumper for Cissy, rinsed fruit from roadside stands with service-station hoses, poured peanuts into twenty-eight-ounce bottles of RC Cola and chugged as she drove. They made steady progress, but not fast enough to suit Delia. She kept rubbing her neck and grinding her teeth.
At a service station near Chattanooga, Delia untied her head scarf for the first time since New Mexico and fought a wave of nausea from the overwhelming smell of gasoline. Whoever came through before them had spilled gas in a puddle next to the pump. They should clean that up, Delia thought, glancing at the rearview mirror. The attendant was staring at her, but why shouldn’t he? She looked like hell. There was a band of pale skin across her forehead where the scarf had been. Her lips were cracked, her nose bright pink and peeling. The collar of her blouse was stiff with sweat, and she had rubbed the back of her neck raw. She closed her eyes and felt the world wheeling around her still body. Cissy pumped her heels at the dash, and Delia turned to her. The girl looked as bad as her mother, sunburned and filthy and miserable. Delia saw with a shock that Cissy’s left eye was puffy and red.
“Christ,” she said. “Where are your glasses?” She rummaged through the junk on the seat until she found the thick, dark lenses. “Put these on right now.” For the first time Delia registered the desolation on her daughter’s face. She reached over and patted her shoulder.
Cissy flinched. “Don’t touch me.” She got out of the car and crawled into the backseat.
Delia set her jaw and filled up the tank. She looked at Cissy once in the mirror, put the car in gear, and drove.
When they were on the highway again, Cissy considered tossing the glasses out the broken window, but she knew that Delia would back up a mile to get them.
T hey came into Cayro late that night. Cissy was sound asleep in the backseat. Delia pulled in behind the Motel 6 on the Marietta side of town and curled up under the steering wheel. “I’ll just sleep for a little, just a little while,” she whispered, and immediately fell unconscious.
C issy woke up toward dawn as the light brightened and the traffic noise increased. Delia was asleep in the front, the torn and wrinkled road map sticking out from under her right hip. Cissy lay there listlessly until an awful grinding made her lift her head and look out the window. A big yellow and red Dixie General label shone on the side of an eighteen-wheeler steering slowly past the Datsun. Cissy wondered briefly just what the General was shipping, then stretched and unlatched the door. Her face was dirty and creased from the plastic seams on the seat cover. She rubbed her left eye and looked around. A sign across the highway advertised a Maryland Fried Chicken two exits away. Another sign, this one green and white, directed traffic toward Atlanta with a sharp arrow. Limping slightly from stiffness, Cissy walked toward the motel.
“Morning, honey.”
The woman had tightly curled hair and was wearing a white uniform. Maid, Cissy thought. Then she watched her go into the little restaurant at the side of the motel. Waitress.
Honey. Cissy mouthed the word, mimicking the accent. Georgia. They must be in Cayro. Cissy was here because her daddy was dead and her mama was crazy. What was it like to be grown and crazy? Cissy looked around the parking lot. Probably lots of crazy people around here.
Honey. Cissy stretched the syllables, the way Delia talked when she had been drinking. Southern accent,
Once they reached Tennessee, Delia drove as if her sanity depended on it. She made peanut butter and white bread sandwiches on the bumper for Cissy, rinsed fruit from roadside stands with service-station hoses, poured peanuts into twenty-eight-ounce bottles of RC Cola and chugged as she drove. They made steady progress, but not fast enough to suit Delia. She kept rubbing her neck and grinding her teeth.
At a service station near Chattanooga, Delia untied her head scarf for the first time since New Mexico and fought a wave of nausea from the overwhelming smell of gasoline. Whoever came through before them had spilled gas in a puddle next to the pump. They should clean that up, Delia thought, glancing at the rearview mirror. The attendant was staring at her, but why shouldn’t he? She looked like hell. There was a band of pale skin across her forehead where the scarf had been. Her lips were cracked, her nose bright pink and peeling. The collar of her blouse was stiff with sweat, and she had rubbed the back of her neck raw. She closed her eyes and felt the world wheeling around her still body. Cissy pumped her heels at the dash, and Delia turned to her. The girl looked as bad as her mother, sunburned and filthy and miserable. Delia saw with a shock that Cissy’s left eye was puffy and red.
“Christ,” she said. “Where are your glasses?” She rummaged through the junk on the seat until she found the thick, dark lenses. “Put these on right now.” For the first time Delia registered the desolation on her daughter’s face. She reached over and patted her shoulder.
Cissy flinched. “Don’t touch me.” She got out of the car and crawled into the backseat.
Delia set her jaw and filled up the tank. She looked at Cissy once in the mirror, put the car in gear, and drove.
When they were on the highway again, Cissy considered tossing the glasses out the broken window, but she knew that Delia would back up a mile to get them.
T hey came into Cayro late that night. Cissy was sound asleep in the backseat. Delia pulled in behind the Motel 6 on the Marietta side of town and curled up under the steering wheel. “I’ll just sleep for a little, just a little while,” she whispered, and immediately fell unconscious.
C issy woke up toward dawn as the light brightened and the traffic noise increased. Delia was asleep in the front, the torn and wrinkled road map sticking out from under her right hip. Cissy lay there listlessly until an awful grinding made her lift her head and look out the window. A big yellow and red Dixie General label shone on the side of an eighteen-wheeler steering slowly past the Datsun. Cissy wondered briefly just what the General was shipping, then stretched and unlatched the door. Her face was dirty and creased from the plastic seams on the seat cover. She rubbed her left eye and looked around. A sign across the highway advertised a Maryland Fried Chicken two exits away. Another sign, this one green and white, directed traffic toward Atlanta with a sharp arrow. Limping slightly from stiffness, Cissy walked toward the motel.
“Morning, honey.”
The woman had tightly curled hair and was wearing a white uniform. Maid, Cissy thought. Then she watched her go into the little restaurant at the side of the motel. Waitress.
Honey. Cissy mouthed the word, mimicking the accent. Georgia. They must be in Cayro. Cissy was here because her daddy was dead and her mama was crazy. What was it like to be grown and crazy? Cissy looked around the parking lot. Probably lots of crazy people around here.
Honey. Cissy stretched the syllables, the way Delia talked when she had been drinking. Southern accent,
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