Hick by Andrea Portes Page B

your name, kid?” She says it out the corner of her mouth, lighting a cigarette, squinting down at the car lighter.
    “Luli.”
    “Luli?” She eyes me sideways, figuring I’m making it up.
    “Yup.”
    “What kind of a name is that?”
    “I don’t know.”
    I feel shy next to her prettiness. she’s got that look like there’s a spotlight framing her, backing her up and keeping the evil spirits at bay. Like in those black-and-white movies when the soldier wakes up in the hospital after fighting the Germans and there all the sudden is this white-dressed dreamboat turning the world from dirt to ice cream with a flip of her hair. I wouldn’t call her cute. And not beautiful, either. Just pretty. Real pretty. Easy on the eyes.
    “Well, I’ll tell you what kind of name it is. Strange. It’s a strange name.” She ashes out the window. “And I’d be willing to bet you’rea strange kid. Strange name, strange kid. It follows. Not your fault. No fault of yours. Just stands to reason that that’s what ends up happening. that’s why you gotta be careful. There’s this couple in Memphis that named their kid Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse. Can you believe it? They had ten kids, so the last one, they just threw up their hands and said, ‘Okay, Mickey Mouse. that’s your name. Good luck.’”
    “Wull, what’s your name?”
    “Glenda.”
    There’s a moment of silence cause I can’t think of nothing smart.
    “You from around here?” She lets me off the hook.
    “Yup . . . um, Palmyra. Maybe you know my dad. Nicholas Scott McMullen.”
    “People call him Nick?”
    “Yeah, you know him?” I say, all hope and glory. I sound like a small town girl. Small potatoes.
    “Nope.”
    “Oh.”
    “I just figured . . .”
    “Oh, right.” I laugh a little, embarrassed. I can see her eyes in the rearview. She smiles, not wanting to be mean. that’s where that light comes from. It’s like she comes from a place where you can just sit there and don’t have to cut down.
    “Okay.” She nods, “Well, now that we’ve got that established, what about your mother?”
    “What about her?”
    She sizes me up in the mirror. “What’ the matter, you got some pending issue or something?”
    I don’t say nothing.
    “All right.” She tosses her cigarette out the window. “They know you’re out here?”
    “No.”
    “Bet they’re worried.”
    “I doubt it. My dad left and my mama’s fucking a peeled worm.”
    She laughs at that, a hearty laugh, like she’s on the Tonight Show.
    So, how’d you get stuck out in the ditch like that? You’re about three hours west of Palmyra.”
    “I hitched a ride from some guy. He was crazy.”
    “They all are. Some’re just better at hiding it.”
    I stare out the window at the pitch black, the only light coming out from the headlights, endless and straight.
    “Well, what’d he look like?”
    “Who?”
    “The guy.”
    “Crazy. Bug-eyed. A real freak.”
    Her ears start to prick up.
    “Whattaya mean, bug-eyed?”
    “You know, bug-eyed. Like a frog, kinda.”
    She gets real quiet now. I can feel something sizzling in the molecules circling around her.
    “You get his name?”
    “Eddie. Eddie Kreezer.”
    “Tell me you did not just say that.”
    “I did not just say that . . . but that was his name. Eddie Kreezer.”
    “Good motherfucking Lord almighty.” She slams her hands on the dashboard. “Jesus.”
    All the sudden everything’s changed and that light around her turns from white to red.
    I shuffle my feet, look at my shoes, not knowing what to say or do or what to make of it. Finally I say the dumbest thing ever.
    “Know him?”
    “Know him?” She laughs, but It’s an unhappy laugh. “Yeah, I guess I do know him. I know him better than he knows himself.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing. Goddamnit . . . good thing you got outta that car.”
    “Truck.”
    “What?”
    “He was driving a truck.”
    “Oh, I see, he drives a truck now. Well, that’s perfect. Probably