3

We’ve been on the road for twenty minutes. My only thoughts are the calculation between a fast-moving semi and a faster-moving Harley. It’s like one of those math problems in junior high that I could never wrap my mind around: If vehicle A is traveling at sixty-five mph and vehicle B is traveling at seventy-five mph, how long will it take for vehicle B to catch up to vehicle A, and will Artie even stop in Erie? Mitch pulls me out of my mathematical reverie. “So where are you from?”

“I’ve been living in Washington.”

“State or D.C.?”

“State. Seattle.”

Our conversation is bulleted, quick phrases spoken through tiny mouthpieces directly into ears. A weird intimacy. Can he hear my breath in his ear? Once, I was a telemarketer for a male-enhancement product. We were encouraged to be breathy.

“Where you from?” I’m not sure what I’m expecting. He has the look of a man who might not be from anywhere.

“Cleveland Heights.”

“So you were just starting out on your trip?” The travel center is only a few miles from Cleveland Heights.

“Not going anywhere. I was just buying coffee. Taking the bike out for a spin.”

I feel a little flush of embarrassment. “Look, I’ll pay for your gas when we stop.”

“Not to worry. I was looking for an excuse to take a good ride.”

“Don’t Harley riders tend to ride in packs?”

“Only on weekends.” His chuckle actually tickles my ear.

We drive in silence for a few more miles. Even though I know we’re traveling over the speed limit, it feels too slow. The scenery flowing past seems too distinct, as if it should be a blur, a mass of green and brown and white. Instead, I can pick out individual trees and houses and farms that take forever to move behind us. I want to tap Mitch on the shoulder and beg him to go faster. I am secure behind him, his body protecting me against the cold slipstream. Billboards advertising attractions one hundred miles away tick off the miles in tortoise slowness. Annie’s Café one hundred miles. Annie’s Café ninety miles. Eighty miles. Will we never reach Annie’s Café?

The road trips of my childhood in the memory of another person might come across as a good thing. Dad, stepmother, stepbrother and me, looking for all the world like the average family. Dad married the wicked one six months after Mom died. Six months in the life of a fourth grader isn’t the length of time it is to an infant, or a toddler. I was still moving around like a zombie, waiting for someone to come along who could explain to me why this had happened and tell me that I would someday be okay. Instead, Dad married our divorced next-door-neighbor, Adele Rose.

Adele had aggressively courted Dad, supplying us with casseroles long after my mother was in her winter grave and the daffodils were coming up in the backyard. She had him going next door to fix things—lightbulbs, loose hinges, the clock on her microwave after a power outage. The first time I heard my father laugh after my mother’s death was in the company of Mrs. Rose. Even a nine-year-old could figure out what was happening.