Mack stands and stretches, loosening the limbs that have been curled up all day. He yawns, a long jaw loosening to settle his anxiety. Artie is unaware of him, eyes on the road, cigarette burning between fingers gripped on the wheel. He’s turned on the radio, and a man’s voice is barely audible above the engine noise. The cell suddenly commences its honking again. Mack sits down, waiting until Artie attends to the object’s needs. Once again, Artie silences the cell without speaking at it. He lets loose with a stream of volatile tongue language. Mack decides he can wait a little while longer before asking for dinner. Artie’s voice sounds like a kick in the ribs.

4

“What takes you east?” Mitch’s voice in my ear yanks me out of my reverie.

“Sick father. Duty call.”

“How far east?”

“New Bedford, Massachusetts.”

“Far enough. Whaling capital, right?”

“That’s what the sign says.” I try not to shout, even though I can barely hear my own voice over the slip of the wind. I know that I can whisper over this mic and Mitch will hear me, but I still feel the temptation to shout. “What about you? What takes you on the road on a Wednesday?” Because I can’t see his face, I don’t register that this might be a rude question until it takes him a minute or two to answer. I’ve been embracing this stranger for the better part of an hour, the scent of his leather jacket so deep into my nose that I could pick it out of a crowd, the age-softened leather like chamois beneath my fingers. I don’t even know his last name and I’ve trusted him to take me across a state line. “How come you’re free?” Maybe my question isn’t about why he’s free on a weekday to ride his Harley, but why he’s free to help me pursue Artie.

“Felt like taking a day off.”

“What do you do?”

“Tap dancer.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or not, sort of like laughing at an off-color joke, but it was his joke, so I do. “Really? Tap dancer.”

“I wear a peg.”

“Okay. I believe you.” I’m willing to let him keep himself to himself. I get it.

“Actually, I’m a musician.” This makes sense, I can see him behind a guitar.

“In a band?”

“Symphony orchestra. Cleveland SO.”

This is one of those moments that makes me nervous. Is he still joking around, or could this rather large, unshaven, but not in a good way, Harley rider really be telling me the truth? I decide to let myself be strung along. “What do you play?”

“Violin. First chair.”

This is so specific that it sounds plausible. “You must have to practice a lot.”

“That’s what I’m taking the day off from. I’m skipping out on rehearsal. Being rebellious.”

“You look the part for that.”

“Thanks. I’ve cultivated the look.”

“A Harley-riding violinist. That’s a first for me.” Ahead of us, for the tenth time, is a semi that might be Artie’s. I tap Mitch on the shoulder and point. He speeds up, overtaking the truck easily. It’s not Artie. A skinny guy in a Raiders cap salutes from the driver’s seat.