“It’s a dead end,” Cassie heard her mother say to Esther, who was riding shotgun in the beaver-board station wagon chock full of kids and dogs and mounded high on top with luggage and coolers.
Cassie’s eight-year-old ears caught a hint of something off in her mother's voice. A note of concern? Or was it fear?
But Cassie’s mom did not stop the car, she just asked Esther, “Did I take a wrong turn?” And then she kept driving toward whatever was ahead as the sun slipped behind the pine trees.
“I don’t know, Ginger, I thought you'd driven this a hundred times. It is YOUR father’s beach place we’re going to.” Cassie detected concern in Esther’s voice and sensed an uncommon tension between the two women.
Cassie pulled herself her knees up to her chest and tried to shove against the crush of other kids who were sitting too close to her on the hot naugahyde bench seat or roiling back and forth into the cargo area with the dogs. The station wagon, which was far from new, had become steamy and sticky thanks to all their hot breaths mingled with even hotter, gritty summer air that had been blowing on them through the un-air conditioned car’s open windows the entire three hours of the trip.
She looked out the open window to a landscape that would soon be fully dark and all she could think was "What's on a road named 'Dead End'? A cemetery? Bodies? Really bad things for sure."
This was not Ginger and Esther’s first road trip. The two had been friends since before the birth of Cassie’s older sister, whom Ginger had been expecting when they met at her baby shower thrown by the matriarchs of their small Southern town. Both had married local boys and both had reluctantly allowed themselves to be been transplanted here to a place that barely tolerated outsiders. It was not long before they bonded over their shared resentment of the town's stultifying expectations about the lives they should lead.
In the years since, Ginger and Esther had each produced sets of three children, stair-step siblings born to each woman on alternating years. During the first six years of their friendship, Ginger and Esther swapped maternity clothes back and forth between pregnancies and shared a growing desire to rebel against their circumstances.
As soon as Esther’s third baby, the last of the six to arrive, could walk, the two mothers began finding ways to escape, often taking day trips together to drive down backroads where they could explore creeks and trails and drink beer and smoke cigarettes on the sly. And as Cassie and Esther became inseparable, their kids became more like cousins than friends, developing that inevitable mixture of familial love/hate for one another.
Those trips, which were always fun, were not on Cassie’s mind right now. This one was different because they were far away from home and lost and their moms seemed upset with one another or about something. Dread crept into Cassie’s belly, making its queasy way into her throat and emerging as panicked wail of “Stop, mom, stop!”
"What is it?” Ginger asked, her voice verging on angry as she slammed on the brakes and twisted toward the backseat writhing with children. “Are you car sick? Don’t you throw up on anyone now!”
“I don’t want us to die,” Cassie said.
“To what?” Ginger said.
“This road, it’s ‘Dead End,’” Cassie replied, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If we keep going mean people will get us.”
Ginger looked hard at her daughter for a moment until a low chuckle began to shake her shoulders. Esther joined in and soon tears of hilarity, and maybe relief, were streaming down both women’s cheeks. Then Ginger reached one hand across the seat, a set of metal bangle bracelets jangling on her fine slender wrist, to touch Cassie’s sweaty knees.
“It’s okay honey, Esther and I are really good at getting away from mean people,” Cassie said. “We’ve been doing it for years.” Then Cassie’s mother turned the car around and headed back the way they’d come, away from that particular dead end.
— Katjack
Cassie’s eight-year-old ears caught a hint of something off in her mother's voice. A note of concern? Or was it fear?
But Cassie’s mom did not stop the car, she just asked Esther, “Did I take a wrong turn?” And then she kept driving toward whatever was ahead as the sun slipped behind the pine trees.
“I don’t know, Ginger, I thought you'd driven this a hundred times. It is YOUR father’s beach place we’re going to.” Cassie detected concern in Esther’s voice and sensed an uncommon tension between the two women.
Cassie pulled herself her knees up to her chest and tried to shove against the crush of other kids who were sitting too close to her on the hot naugahyde bench seat or roiling back and forth into the cargo area with the dogs. The station wagon, which was far from new, had become steamy and sticky thanks to all their hot breaths mingled with even hotter, gritty summer air that had been blowing on them through the un-air conditioned car’s open windows the entire three hours of the trip.
She looked out the open window to a landscape that would soon be fully dark and all she could think was "What's on a road named 'Dead End'? A cemetery? Bodies? Really bad things for sure."
This was not Ginger and Esther’s first road trip. The two had been friends since before the birth of Cassie’s older sister, whom Ginger had been expecting when they met at her baby shower thrown by the matriarchs of their small Southern town. Both had married local boys and both had reluctantly allowed themselves to be been transplanted here to a place that barely tolerated outsiders. It was not long before they bonded over their shared resentment of the town's stultifying expectations about the lives they should lead.
In the years since, Ginger and Esther had each produced sets of three children, stair-step siblings born to each woman on alternating years. During the first six years of their friendship, Ginger and Esther swapped maternity clothes back and forth between pregnancies and shared a growing desire to rebel against their circumstances.
As soon as Esther’s third baby, the last of the six to arrive, could walk, the two mothers began finding ways to escape, often taking day trips together to drive down backroads where they could explore creeks and trails and drink beer and smoke cigarettes on the sly. And as Cassie and Esther became inseparable, their kids became more like cousins than friends, developing that inevitable mixture of familial love/hate for one another.
Those trips, which were always fun, were not on Cassie’s mind right now. This one was different because they were far away from home and lost and their moms seemed upset with one another or about something. Dread crept into Cassie’s belly, making its queasy way into her throat and emerging as panicked wail of “Stop, mom, stop!”
"What is it?” Ginger asked, her voice verging on angry as she slammed on the brakes and twisted toward the backseat writhing with children. “Are you car sick? Don’t you throw up on anyone now!”
“I don’t want us to die,” Cassie said.
“To what?” Ginger said.
“This road, it’s ‘Dead End,’” Cassie replied, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If we keep going mean people will get us.”
Ginger looked hard at her daughter for a moment until a low chuckle began to shake her shoulders. Esther joined in and soon tears of hilarity, and maybe relief, were streaming down both women’s cheeks. Then Ginger reached one hand across the seat, a set of metal bangle bracelets jangling on her fine slender wrist, to touch Cassie’s sweaty knees.
“It’s okay honey, Esther and I are really good at getting away from mean people,” Cassie said. “We’ve been doing it for years.” Then Cassie’s mother turned the car around and headed back the way they’d come, away from that particular dead end.
— Katjack
When I was six years old, I fell and whacked my arm. I didn't start crying until my mom told me it was broken and I thought they were going to cut it off. How literal and scary childhood can be. - opelikakat
ReplyDeleteThis tale is noisy and mysterious and somehow soothing. ---Macoff
ReplyDelete