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Part One

Driving across the country had been Jacob’s idea, but Sheila was the one who insisted they return along the Highline Highway. Throughout the trip she’d navigated and he’d done most of the driving, a compromise he’d insisted on to keep her from behind the wheel where she turned into someone else altogether: obscene, misanthropic, possibly homicidal. The route she plotted was circuitous—revenge, he suspected—always avoiding interstates, opting instead for old two-lane highways. The Highline fit right into that. Jacob had suggested they just go south a bit, get on I–90, which would take them through Bozeman. He’d show them where he’d lived and the stadium where he’d played cornerback for the football team. But Sheila said no, they’d stay up where they were. They hadn’t come on this trip for a nostalgia tour. Other than the miles that passed through Glacier National Park, there was nothing to look at except endless fields of low-cut barley, broken only by the syncopated thuds of telephone poles, and pathetically small towns named after lonely men. Sheila said, “I can see why you left this place.” “I didn’t live here. Bozeman’s in the mountains.” “I know, I know, so pretty, all that skiing, blah, blah. But this,” she rapped the window with a knuckle, “is what I always sort of imagined. This is what I thought you were running away from.” Her window was cracked open and dark hair blew around her face. She kept pushing it behind her ears, but in seconds it was free again. “It sure is bleak,” he said, to get her to be quiet, though he wanted to say he hadn’t been running away from anything. In the backseat, Janey had her headphones plugged into the iPhone they’d bought her as consolation for coming away all summer with her parents. For the past few thousand miles she’d poured her attention into the little screen as if it were her last link to a dying civilization. 


He’d known Janey wouldn’t want to come on the trip, but he hadn’t expected the almost imperturbable sheen of indifference she’d put on since the second day. She pretended not to hear them when they asked her questions, and remained bored and annoyed even as they’d visited the Grand Canyon, the La Brea tar pits, and through the hike in the Redwood Forest. She wanted to be home with her friends from fourth grade, lying around the public pool, watching the older kids flirt in their too-revealing suits. And though he’d been relentlessly upbeat all trip, even Jacob was ready to get home. The Accord, which he always kept immaculate, was littered with food wrappers, tourist flyers, ripped-up maps, and the seats were sticky from spilled soda and mashed crumbs. “Did you ever come up here?” Sheila asked. “No,” he said, too quickly. “Never?” He didn’t look over, but could tell she was smiling at him. “Maybe, I don’t know.” She picked up the map and ran a finger along the page. “But isn’t Bozeman just down here? It’s not far at all. For you Westerners.” “I said maybe.” He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn’t help it. Twenty years had passed. Half his life. This place had nothing to do with him anymore. “When? When did you come up here?” She always knew when he was hiding something, and could never let it alone. “I don’t know. One time, I think.” “For what?” The lie surged up in a welcome rush. “With the football team. We played an exhibition in Saskatchewan. I think it was a recruitment thing. Up in Regina.”


Nathan Oates She turned the map over to the yellow mass of Canada. The memories came steadily: Jacob had answered the door in his boxers, mouth sweet from a night of beers, and blinked. Standing there was a man with a white beard who said they’d been watching him at practice. For a second he’d thought the man was a scout, but that didn’t fit with the coarse black suit, the beard with no mustache. In the old man’s hands was a large black hat with a wide brim. Behind him was a younger man with the same hat, only on his head. They had a proposition for him. Why didn’t he get dressed and they’d take him to lunch? “It’s kind of mesmerizing,” Sheila said. “Just goes on and on and on. I think you’d go a little nuts, living here.” “Sure would.” “And there we go, one of the local crazies.” She pointed to a horse and buggy, standing in the breakdown lane. “What’re they, Amish?” “I don’t know.” He sped up, but the cart lingered in the rearview. “They live up here all winter? Without electricity? With wood stoves?” “I guess.” “That must be so cold. The poor kids.” “Must be.” Sheila turned and looked out the back window and when she straightened out said, “Hey, why don’t you stop.” He looked in the rearview, thinking she meant to help the cart. An old man with a thick white beard had been kneeling beside the wheel. “Why?” “Just stop,” she said. “I can’t, we’re on the highway.” “What? Just do it, Jacob. There’s no traffic.” “Jesus, Sheila, it’s dangerous. And Janey’s watching her thing.” “So what? Janey can pry herself away for five seconds.” “What do you want to stop for?” He could no longer see the cart. It was probably miles back by now. “I want a picture. Just stop.” Easing into the breakdown lane he said this wasn’t a good idea, but she turned back to Janey and snapped her fingers in front of the girl’s glassy eyes. Wind slammed into the door when he opened it. As he made his way around the car a semi roared past, shaking the air. “Here,” Sheila shouted over the wind, holding out the camera. “Get one of us.” Janey held her mother’s hand, dazed and compliant. They climbed down the gravel slope so that when he looked at the camera they were framed entirely by the yellow fields. They were beautiful, his ladies: both with thick dark hair, pale skin, and translucent blue eyes. The backs of their legs, he’d seen as they walked down the slope, were red and impressed with the crisscross seat pattern, but through the camera lens they were perfect, the finished version and the smaller replica, both prettier than he felt he had any claim to hope for. “Smile,” he shouted into the wind. Sheila insisted on checking the image, wanted another, but he refused, imagined the buggy catching up to them, imagined Sheila striking up a conversation with the man. He walked around the car and got behind the wheel, started the engine, and because he was rushing he didn’t check the mirror and so didn’t see the truck, passing so close it seemed to hit him in the eyes, the horn blaring, the wheels within inches of the hood, then the second set of wheels, and he turned them back into the breakdown lane, wheels spinning in the loose gravel. Only at the last second did he manage to correct the turn and head back out onto the road, but too fast, so that they hit the ridge of asphalt with a crack. 


The truck disappeared into the distance. They drove in silence. “Oh my god,” Sheila said “We almost died,” Janey shouted. “We almost had an accident!” She leaned forward, clutching Sheila’s headrest. “Yes,” he said, pushing on the accelerator. Then, “Put your seat belt on, right now.” “What happened?” Sheila said. “That truck just came out of nowhere.” “You almost killed us.” “On purpose, Sheila. I did it on purpose.” When he looked over she was crying. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That just scared the shit out of me.” Nathan Oates In the lull that followed he noticed a rattle coming from the back of the car. The noise got louder. Soon he could barely hear Sheila shout they should probably stop next time they found a place.

Feb. 21, 2017, 12:39 p.m. 0 Report Embed Follow story
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